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by Helen Hollick

  Gwenhwyfar laughed, a weird sound that touched on madness. “Never in front of your men. You prefer their company above mine, don’t you? Why is that, Arthur? Why?” She sneered into his face. “Because they love you more than I do? They would lay down their weapons and die for you. I would not.”

  Arthur attempted to propel her in the direction of his tent. “We will talk about this in private.”

  She threw his hands off her. “We will not! I have nothing to hide. I am not the one who murdered Amr.”

  Arthur’s hand met her face, slapping her cheek. She crumpled as Llacheu clawed at his father, tears slipping down his face. “Don’t, Da, don’t hit her! She did not mean it!”

  Arthur stood taut, his hands and teeth clenched, body rigid. Slowly the tension eased and he dropped to his knees. He rumpled Llacheu’s hair and lifted his unconscious wife in his arms. “I know, son. I know she did not. Neither did I.”

  None of the men believed that careless-flung accusation. It was an accident, a tragic accident. Yet, words were whispered through camp and idle gossip spread from mouth to ear, for unguarded chatter has a habit of swelling beyond recognisable shape.

  Arthur laid Gwenhwyfar on his own bed, sent someone scurrying for Enid. Already the flesh along the cheekbone was darkening. He reached for his son, held the shivering boy close. Llacheu’s arms encircled his father, the tears flowing, words muffled. “It was all my fault, Da. All my fault.”

  Instantly Arthur was crouching, his hands firm, strong and secure, grasping the lad’s shoulders. “It was not. It was nobody’s fault. It was a thing that happens. If someone must take blame then your mam is right, it rests on my shoulders.”

  Llacheu shook his head, wiped mucus from his nose with the back of his hand. “You told me to watch over him. I didn’t, and now he is dead.”

  “Ah, my son.” Arthur enfolded the boy, hugging him close. What more could he say to reassure the boy?

  “Mam will never forgive me,” Llacheu said in a small, trembling voice.

  “There is naught to forgive.”

  Enid, flustered and swollen-eyed from crying, bustled into the tent. Arthur lifted Llacheu into his aims as though he were still a very small child and ducked out, leaving with, “Take care of her, Enid, I go to bury my son.”

  Arthur went alone, save for the body of Amr and the companionship of his eldest son, Llacheu. He carried the wrapped bundle in his arms, Llacheu riding silent upon Hasta, the horse plodding amiably at Arthur’s heels. They climbed the hill to the ancient burial place, to the sanctity of the Stones. Without exchanging words, father and son dug and scraped a cavity beneath the great capstone and laid the husk that was yesterday a laughing child beneath its ancient weight. They covered the red cloak that wrapped the body with soil and rocks and left, walking back to camp as quietly as they had left.

  By sun-up the next day, the camp was empty. Charred circles marked the fires, flattened discoloured grass the tent pitches. To the north, the ground was churned with the passing of many hooves. And away on the ridge of a hill the body of a small boy lay silent and cold among the shuffling spirits of an ancient race of people.

  March 462

  XXII

  Ambrosius Aurelianus was ill. He had never been a particularly healthy man, and this winter’s damp was taking its toll. A series of purges had cleared his stomach and bowels but still, after these weeks, most of whatever he ate refused to stay down. The pains in his belly had eased, that was something to thank God for.

  He huddled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, wished the brazier gave a little more heat against the persistent draught that howled beneath the doors and between the shutters. The holy place at Venta Bulgarium might be new-built but it was damned cold! He ought to have left for warmer Aquae Sulis, but he was too ill to travel. Unscrolling the parchment in his hand, he read the pleading for help a second time. What could he do to assist Eboracum? Could he mount his horse and lead men so far north against a raiding army? He could not even stand without the room spinning and his stomach heaving. In a burst of impotent rage he flung the parchment from him, sending it skipping and bouncing across the stone-flagged floor. The city of Eboracum had sent this urgent, desperate word and Ambrosius could do nothing! The militia of Britannia Secunda had refused to go. Damn it; refused to go!

  The door opened, a cloying waft of perfume, the rustling sound of a woman’s garments, boots tapping on the floor. Winifred fluttered in.

  “Oh, my Lord, do I find you still not well?” She flustered around, tucking a second fur over Ambrosius’s legs, ordering a slave to make up the brazier, fetch warmed wine. “There is a most tall, and extremely dirty young man waiting outside. Do I have him turned away?” Winifred managed to make the question into an order.

  Ambrosius grunted. Another reason he ought to be gone from here. Lady Winifred intruded, unannounced, too often. She had financed the building of his holy community and therefore saw it as her own. Riding to worship in the grand and imposing church every day she was a God-cursed nuisance! Politely he refused wine, expressed that he would be needing to see that young man again.

  Shrugging indifference, Winifred bent to retrieve the scrolled parchment from the floor, unrolled it, read before Ambrosius could protest. Shocked, she put a hand to her throat. “Those poor people of Eboracum! We must rouse the militia, send them northward immediately…”

  Ambrosius interrupted. “They will not go. They say the north is not their concern.”

  “Not even Eboracum? And with the Archbishop there for a meeting of the synod?”

  “Not even for Eboracum or Patricius.” Ambrosius rubbed the cold of his fingers with his other hand. Especially not for Patricius, an odious, pompous and greedy man, who managed to offend everyone, from Ambrosius himself down to the poorest trader. He survived because he was Archbishop, were he any other man a dagger would have been found in his back long since.

  Winifred stamped her foot. “This is treason!”

  “Alas, it is not. It is not for the militia to march beyond our boundaries. There is only one who commands men who will go anywhere at any time without thought or question.”

  Sinking to a stool, Winifred’s expression was clearly shocked. “But my Lord Ambrosius, there are many wealthy men of the church at Eboracum.”

  Ambrosius had to admit the truth. “It is my belief that the northmen attacked knowing it, guessing these comfort-lovers would travel with their worldly goods.” He snorted. “Rich pickings, a synod of the Christian Church!”

  For once, Winifred was at a loss for words. Eboracum meant nothing to her, it was just another decaying town meeting its death. Patricius would be a loss, for he was a useful man to have on her side, a man easily bought by the right weight of a purse. But the synod was to discuss the appointment of an abbess for Venta Bulgarium. Damn it! She had sent three chests of generous gifts north to assure her appointment! She stood and kicked the stool across the room. Three chests! Three! Her future, gone to that foul-minded woman – oh aye she knew it would have gone to Morgause, curse her, may God blacken her teeth and womb! Curse the woman!

  Faintly amused, Ambrosius watched Winifred stalking angrily about the room, her lips tight pressed, brows drawn. He knew she had been hoping for the revered position of abbess, a position that would have generated her much power and wealth – as if she did not possess enough of both already. Ah, the pity about Eboracum, but there was, he thought with a wry smile, at least the one compensation.

  She stopped her walking, whirled to face him. “What are we to do? We cannot let the north get away with such an outrage.”

  “There is only one thing I can do.” It was easier to say than he had imagined, and having said it, he felt a weight lift from him and the constant feel of sickness ease from his stomach. For all his belief in Rome, he had known these last weeks that it was not working, this dividing of the country.

  The Pendragon, for all his many and varied faults, was after all, a brilliant commander.
r />   XXIII

  Balancing on a tilted chair, legs resting on a table and crossed at the ankles, Arthur read the words seemingly hastily scrawled on the wax tablet just delivered into his hand by the officer of the watch. He scanned the message a second time. “Hah!” His single bark of laughter caused Cei to glance up from the quartermaster’s list he was diligently checking. Arthur handed him the tablet. “Read that.”

  Cei read. “God in Heaven, Arthur, this is hard to believe!”

  Arthur let the chair drop abruptly to its four legs, rose casually from his seat and walked behind Cei to peer over the man’s shoulder. “What part? Hard to believe Lot of the North has at last made himself ready to raid into the south, or that Ambrosius is begging for my help?”

  Carefully, Cei placed the communication onto a precariously balanced pile of similar tablets, sat a moment massaging his chin. A grin.

  “Both I think.”

  Arthur laughed again, and leaning on Cei’s shoulder, reached across the mess of unread petitions and complaints on the table for the wine flask, topped Cei’s goblet and cocked his eyes at the hound pup busy chewing something beneath the table. He bent to retrieve what had once been a perfectly good boot before the dog’s teeth had been at it, studied the torn leather a moment and tossed it back to the pup. He might as well have it; the boot was of no more use. Sauntering to his chair, Arthur sat, poured himself another drink. “Do I answer my uncle, or ignore him?”

  Cei propelled himself upward from his stool, faced his cousin and commander with anger. Excited at the sudden movement the pup, Cabal, leapt from beneath the table, began bouncing about the tent barking and growling, the boot forgotten. “Ignore it? Ignore it!” Cei’s arms whirled, adding emphasis to his anger. “A whore’s son has been let in at the back door while you and your uncle have been piddling away time and energy snarling at each other. Eboracum has been attacked and you say ignore it? Jesu wept, Arthur!”

  Holding up his hands in submission, his grin as broad as an ancient oak tree, Arthur let his balanced chair drop to stability. “Whoa my friend, curb your horse! I was jesting.” He clicked his fingers at the young dog, diverting his playfulness back to the quieter chewing of the boot. “I would not miss this opportunity to crow I told you so.”

  Cei scowled and backed down. Reseating himself he picked up Ambrosius’s plea for help once again and stabbed a finger at the second paragraph. “This, I grant, is a turnabout.”

  Leaning across the table, Arthur plucked the thing from Cei’s hand and read aloud, “ ‘I humbly beseech you to advance with all due expedition, to give aid and revenge to the deaths and ravaging of our Roman Town of Eboracum against the plundering heathen Lot, self-styled King of Caledonia.’ Humbly,” Arthur snorted with delight. “I think I like that word.” He flipped the tablet closed, set it down on the table. “Turnabout? Ambrosius Aurelianus asking for my help? Mithras, Cei, it’s a bloody miracle!” His wicked grin spread wider. “I reckon your Christian God is on my side after all?”

  Cei grunted. “If He is, you will no doubt take advantage – but will you then acknowledge Him?”

  Arthur randomly selected a scrolled parchment, playfully tapped his friend’s shoulder with it. “Not today, Cei. No attempts to convert me to Christianity this day please! My uncle has come to his senses and realised I command the most powerful force in Britain. I am too busy for all that knee bending and dutiful praying.”

  Cei returned to checking his list. “Just as well the Lord does not share your views.”

  Arthur was up again, striding to the open tent flap, not listening. He issued a brief order for his uncle’s messenger to be brought in and turned back to Cei. “Put that list down, man, we have a war trail brewing.”

  Cei answered without raising his eyes. “Whether in barracks or on campaign men must eat – and this list of supplies falls widely short of what is desired. Look at this!” He waved the parchment at Arthur who stretched forward for it. Cei stood, moved to his side, pointed to two separate entries. “Look, here and here, corn and flour – mouldy, all of it mildewed and rotten. Call that tribute? I call it insult!”

  Arthur chewed his lower lip, screwed his eyes to study the figures and comments written fastidiously in the quartermaster’s tidy, but small, print. “When was it delivered?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  Arthur erupted into a burst of expletive anger, ending with, “Damn it, Cei! What does it take to convince these people I mean business?”

  Cei opened his arms wide, palms uppermost. “A raiding party from beyond the Wall?” He chuckled. “It almost makes me think this attack by Lot was at your instigation. Deliberately let the bees swarm then passively march in to re-hive them?”

  Arthur was prising the wax stopper from a fresh flagon of wine. “I am innocent! Mind, it’s worth remembering. I could use it against Amlawdd over on the west coast. He’s always trying to aim some dirty trick at me.”

  Cabal, his master’s attention no longer on him, sauntered to the nearest tent pole, cocked his leg and then settled himself before the glowing brazier, turning around three or four times before curling into a ball instantly to sleep.

  Catching movement beyond the tent, Arthur turned. A tall lad stooped through the entrance and stood nervously before him, twiddling his woollen cap. The King studied him a moment, then asked, “Do you come from Ambrosius Aurelianus? Are you of his men? You do not bear his insignia.”

  The lad shook his head, “Oh, na, my lord, I’m from Eboracum.” His eyes, darting nervously around Arthur’s spacious tent, were red-rimmed against a hollow, ashen face. Of muscular build and tall height he slumped now, shoulders sagging, feet dragging with the leaden weight of fatigue. Arthur judged him to be little more than ten and seven summers.

  “You have ridden hard?” Arthur asked, concerned.

  “Aye, my Lord,” the lad answered, swallowed, found a sudden interest in the iron buckle of his baldric. “Things were right bad when we left Eboracum.”

  Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

  The lad flung up his head, showing more than tiredness behind those grey, nervous eyes.

  “We?” Arthur questioned again. He found he had to look up to this young man who towered two hand-spans in height above him – though Arthur himself was tall.

  The young soldier cleared his throat. “They gave us the best horses – three of us made a bolt for it. Only I got through. The northmen took the others.” His fingers were still toying with the buckle. “I’ve heard tell of what they do to prisoners.” He desperately wanted Arthur to deny those rumours of horrific tortures. One of the two had been his younger brother. But the Pendragon remained silent. There was no point in denying a truth; instead, the King turned to pour wine, offered a brimming goblet; quality vintage, not the watered stuff of the ranks. The lad accepted it eagerly and gulped the liquid down. It felt like fire in his throat and belly, gave him some small amount of strength and courage.

  “Go easy on that,” Arthur said with a smile. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Ider, Sir.”

  “So, Lot has attacked Eboracum. Tell me what happened. Take your time.”

  Ider hesitated, gathering his thoughts. Where to begin? “There were thousands of them, Sir, come up out of the dawn with the fog. Swarming all round the town, like a disturbed nest of ants.” He spoke quickly, hands and arms animated, brow furrowed.

  “Have you seen action afore, lad?” Cei asked. Ider swivelled around to face him.

  “I was in battle last summer.” He answered too quickly, too boldly. Meeting Cei’s direct, questioning gaze he faltered and glanced at the floor, looked up again, a weak grin forming. “Well, a skirmish.”

  Arthur laughed. “Even the smallest skirmish can make you to piss your bracae!”

  Ider grinned, found himself liking the Pendragon. There was much derisive talk of Arthur in Eboracum. Ider found himself glad that he had refused to believe it. A grin flushed across his grimed face. “I’m not
certain whether I was more scared of those bastard northmen, or of having to come in here to talk with you!”

  Arthur peered at Ider through his usual expression of half-shut eye and raised eyebrow. “You still scared of me then, boy?”

  Embarrassed, Ider made no answer. “The tales you hear are, for the most part rumours spread by my enemies,” Arthur explained. “And some of them I foster to suit my purpose.” He said no more, what would this raw lad understand of the power struggle between himself, the Church and Ambrosius?

  “So what happened?” Cei prompted the silence.

  Ider answered that one eagerly enough.

  “Several families from outlying settlements fled into town saying there were raiders coming down from beyond the Wall.” He snorted contemptuously. “Those northern bastards have raided many times. Steal a few head of cattle, take some women; burn folk’s homes and fields then slither back to the midden they come from.” He shrugged, and warming to his tale, plunged on. “A few of them approached close to Eboracum last summer, but the militia was called up and me and the lads swung out to meet them.”

  He paused. Putting it like that made it sound as if the thing was boldly organised, a well-disciplined troop ready for action. Not the shambles it had been in reality. “We fought as well we could,” he lied. “We killed most of them.” Well, one or two. “I caught one bastard a blow to the jaw that sent it clean through the back of his skull.” That was not quite true either. He had struck blindly out and sent someone sprawling backwards into a dung-pat. Briefly, it bothered Ider that Arthur would see through the gross exaggeration – but the truth was not glorious enough. How could he tell the poxed reality to this man? Ider always made everything bigger than it was, the habit a part of him. “They ran, those that could run. Couldn’t face up to us!” Now that was nearer fact. The raiders had run, but only because the heavens had opened in a drenching thunderstorm and scared the wits out of both sides. “Eboracum had no more trouble until now.” That last was truth at least.