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by Helen Hollick

  Seated before the main fire with the officers, Cei was sipping his wine. This idea of a feast when about to move on had become tradition for the Cymry – the collective name for all these men. A tradition he did not wholly approve of. He signalled an officer’s attention, found he needed to shout above the excited noise. “Pass word there are to be no sore heads on the morrow. Anyone unfit to march remains behind.”

  The Decurion acknowledged the order, and glanced unguarded at the Pendragon, reddening as he realised Cei had noticed. Cei’s lips tightened into a compressed line. Arthur was already well into his drink. How to keep the men sober when their commander swilled more wine than Bacchus? Hastily, he crossed himself at the image of that drunken, pagan god. He sighed and gestured impatiently. “See to the men, I shall deal with the officers.” Not that he could do much. Might as well ask the tide not to turn as expect Arthur to moderate his fill.

  All the same, Cei hauled himself to his feet and approached his king and cousin. Arthur glanced up at that moment and saw Cei’s sombre expression.

  “Hai! Cei, come sit aside me. This will be a parting feast to remember, eh?”

  Cei seated himself cross-legged next to Arthur as bidden. For a while he watched the leaping flames hungrily devouring branches and dried bracken, twisting and contorting in a leaping dance of yellow, orange and red. The woodsmoke smelt homely, a reminder of a hearth-fire and a wife nursing her children. His wife was among the women with their eight-month-old daughter. It would be pleasant to live beneath a solid roof again, not under the uncertain tremors of a leather tent, but ah, a soldier’s life could never be settled. He would send his wife and child back to her father until his return. Arthur would escort her, for her parents’ estate lay near Gwynedd. Cei smiled wistfully across the dark space between this fire and the women’s, watched her talking to Elen. The girl seemed discontented, angered. Was she not happy then at the prospect of joining her uncle at last? Women were such strange, fanciful creatures. Arthur broke the reverie by nudging his shoulder.

  “You intended to say something to me?”

  Cei appeared startled. How had he known?

  “I have been watching your serious face, my friend.” Arthur chuckled. “Have noticed how your eyes, between watching your wife and our cousin, follow my wine from amphorae to goblet to lips.” He laughed the louder and slapped Cei’s knee. “You fuss like a doting mother!”

  “Someone has to,” Cei growled. He turned his head to look directly at Arthur, expression challenging. “Someone has to remain sober for the morrow.”

  By way of answer, Arthur drained the goblet and held it high for more wine. He drank, chuckled again. Laying a hand on Cei’s shoulder, he leant close, spoke in a whisper down his ear. “This wine is reserved for me alone, ‘tis well watered.”

  Cei frowned. Convincing, but was it true? He squinted at Arthur, trying to read him, knowing it would be useless. You could obtain more information from a stone than Arthur’s close-guarded expressions. He was proficient at hiding thought and intention. Was also a proficient liar. Cei chewed his lip thoughtfully as the Pendragon answered some comment made further around the circle, and held out his goblet for Arthur’s servant to fill with wine. The lad hesitated, glanced apprehensively at the King, who with a casual wave of his hand, gave assent to pour.

  Taking a deep draught Cei almost choked, spat the strong wine from his mouth, spluttering his rage. Wiping his dripping mouth he cursed, “Damn you and your lies, Arthur!”

  Arthur crowed his amusement. “The water’s unexpectedly potent in these parts, Cousin!”

  About to respond with a second curse, Cei was interrupted by movement from the unmarried women. They were rising, shedding cloaks and boots, loosening bound hair. A great cheer and burst of applause cracked the frosted air, greeting them. The women were to dance!

  At the last moment Elen sprang to her feet. She kicked off her boots, tossed aside her cloak and linked hands within the forming circle. She too would dance; she would dance to please and excite the watching men and to taunt Arthur.

  The rhythm began slowly, a haunting, evocative pace, its steady beat from drum and stamping feet resurrecting the ancient pagan memories that even through the grip of Christianity would never be totally buried. The women trod their movement, slow-circling, their chant complementing the steady stamp-pause-stamp of bare feet on hard ground. One two, one two; one two three, one two three. Dip bend, dip bend; twirl and bend. The beat quickened as the pace picked up, the pattern becoming wild as the circle ascended into a whirling frenzy of lithe movement, the women’s swirling skirts revealing tantalising glimpses of leg and thigh; their bodies writhing within the ecstasy of their own-made music.

  The men were standing, had formed their own circle around the dancers, cheering and clapping, stamping along with the exultant rhythm. The erotic, evocative dance reached its height, a screeched crescendo of voices as the women held for a brief moment the trembling, pulsating circle and then slowed, winding down and down until the high, hot, emotion slid into the warm glow of throbbing pleasure. They came to a halt, and there followed a moment of silence when only the crackle of flames could be heard mixing with the gasping breath of sweat-drenched dancers. Then, a tumult of applause, a shout of approval from the men.

  The women dispersed, scattering, laughing and chatting among the men, seeking that intimate, last sampling of enjoyment. Some men left their companions, went in search of their wives, others settled again to their drink. There were not enough women to partner every man. Their turn would come with the army whores. It would be a long night, this night of feasting.

  Elen stood among the dwindling circle of women, her mouth open, breath heaving. She was hot and wet from sweat, and she wanted a man. Arthur’s derisive words clawed at her brooding anger. She could have gone with any man, these months, had the offers, the opportunities, but she had lain only with the King, had the wanting of only him. The child she carried was his. And he had laughed at her, scorned her, implied she was no better than any of the army whores. There were many spaces around the circle now, the women pairing off with the men.

  One lad she did not recognise. He sprawled, the worse for drink, beside the nearest fire. A tall young man, bull-built with mouse-brown hair. He tweaked playfully at the fine material of her skirt as she passed, his other hand sliding beneath to clutch at her slender ankle. Elen flared into anger and swung to berate his audacity, then checked. Here was given opportunity! Mildly scolding with her tongue, she plucked her skirt from his grasp, kicking his hand aside, her eyes signalling that this was a game; that she was ready for more.

  Ider hesitated, uncertain, his drinking companion seeing the situation whispered the girl’s name and family, gave a brief warning shake of his head. Elen cursed under her breath. She was going to lose the fool unless she acted quickly. Contriving to trip, a little scream flying from her lips, she fell into his lap. Giving a pretence of embarrassment, said hurriedly, “I am yours, my lover if you want me. Or have you not the balls to graze a nobleborn’s pasture?”

  Ider needed no second invitation. Lad he might be, but he enjoyed his women. His hands flew to her bodice, his lips crushing against hers.

  Something exploded against his head. He spun backwards, limp and dazed, a trickle of blood oozing from his scalp. In the same movement someone was wrenching at Elen’s arm, hauling her upright. A hasty stir of reaction from other men, a fluttered wave of movement as hands reached for daggers, as quickly relaxed when the chief player in the stir was realised.

  Arthur stood over Ider, his boot ready to kick again should he move, but the lad lay still, stunned by the initial blow. Elen struggled against the grip on her arm, shrieking her outrage, her nails clawing at Arthur’s hand.

  “Show yourself for what you are, slut!” he bellowed at her, “but not by using my men to get at me!”

  “Let me go!” Elen twisted, looked to the men for help but they had returned to their own business. “Let me go, Pendragon,
or you will regret this insult!”

  “You bring insult to yourself.” With a sneer Arthur added, “and you hoped I would take you with me?” He let her go, thrusting her from him so that she stumbled to her knees. Threw at her as he walked away, “There may be room among the whore carts for you.”

  Insulted, humiliated, and frightened of what was to become of her, Elen fumbled among the folds of her skirt, found her dagger. She lunged for his departing back. Someone shouted, someone else thrust out a foot to topple her. Arthur whirled, the dagger ripping through his sleeve, tearing through material and flesh, leaving blood seeping where the blade had passed. He reacted instinctively, as the fighter he was, a gut response, unintentionally vicious. His left arm swung up knocking the dagger aside, while in the same defensive movement, his foot lifted and thrust into her lower stomach.

  Elen pitched forward, breath and fight whooshing from her. No one moved to aid her, she lay sprawled on the frost-hard ground, tears of rage and humiliation spotting her cheeks. Arthur was walking away, men were returning to their wine and song. Miserably alone, she stumbled to her feet, her hands clutching at the pain in her belly. “I shall tell your wife who fathered my child!” she screamed, staggering a few paces. “If I lose it I will tell her that you killed it! Killed yet another son, you murdering bastard!”

  Arthur halted, his hand tightly clutched on his own dagger. He recovered himself, walked from the glare of fires out into the darkness.

  Cei alone went to help Elen, offering her his arm to lean on, but she swept him a haughty gaze, knocked him aside and stalked away. Did not realise her fortune. Had Arthur not growled explicit instructions as he strode off, she would now be dangling at the end of a rope. The Artoriani took unkindly to those who attacked their King.

  XXVI

  Elen could not go to her own tent where her maid would be waiting, a prim-faced matron who had never ceased lecturing morals all winter. Nor would she go to Arthur’s. What was she to do on the morrow when he rode away? Go to her uncle, a devout Christian who preached louder and longer than a priest? Elen wanted dancing and gaiety, a man to laugh and love with. After Arthur, who else would there be? After Arthur… fresh tears spilled down her face; what was there for her without Arthur?

  Her stomach ached like a tightening cramp where he had kicked her. Her head too, thudded from the tears and fear. The palisade fencing was before her, looming darker against the star-dusted sky; steps upward beneath her feet as she climbed, not aware of where she was heading until an icy blast of cold air buffeted her at the top. Snuffling more tears, she leant against the wooden fencing, looking out, down across the ditch to the spread of night-shadowed land. The river was away to the left, glitter-sparkling the soft reflection of the stars. Away distant, about half of one mile off, a light flickered. The watch fires of Ambrosius’s men, set to guard his boundaries. Oh, she did not want to go to her uncle!

  A star fell, tumbling a silver trail down the sky, burning brightly hopeful a brief moment, then it was gone. It would be better to be with the whore wagons than go to Ambrosius, and there at least she would be near Arthur. Happen he would change his mind when the babe came?

  She had been a fool to act as she had before his men – of course he had been angry with her! She would apologise, tell him how stupid she had been. Aye, she would tell him and he would forgive her and then everything would be alright again. Calmer, happier, she turned quickly, intent on going to him now, straightway, before her courage failed. Her foot slipped. The frost had settled, whitening the ground almost before daylight had faded. Down on the parade ground, between the fires where they had danced and where men and women walked, it had melted, but up here on the lonely walkway, where only the night guard sauntered, it lay white and crisp, ice smooth. In a flurry of movement, Elen fell, her arm coming out to grab hold of something to stop herself tumbling, her fingers brushed ice-cold wood, scraped, failed to grip. Her legs were sweeping from beneath her, and there was nothing to stop her falling, nothing to stop her from going over the edge of this high-built rampart walk. Nothing, save for the man who ran, flinging himself faster, diving forward onto his belly, hand outstretched, fingers clawing to catch hold of her as she went over the side.

  He caught at her arm – the material of her gown – the fine stuff slipping between his grasping fingers. Desperately he tried to catch hold firmer with his other hand, but the material ripped and she was gone, falling downwards, her scream ending abruptly with a thud leaving a sickening quiet.

  Arthur lay for what seemed a long while, his head over the edge, eyes closed, fingers clutching that ripped piece of garment. This was not what he had wanted – Mithras blood, what had he wanted?

  Men were running, some coming up the steps, others gathering around the sprawled, smashed, body that had a moment before been Elen, the flickering light from their burning torches casting dancing shadows, grotesque around where she lay. Someone was kneeling beside Arthur, a hand beneath his arm, helping him up, but Arthur pushed him aside, feeling the rise of vomit coming to his throat. He breathed slowly, kept the nausea down, clambered unsteadily to his feet.

  It was Hueil who had been beside him, a young officer who had come from the north two winters past; eldest son to Caw chief lord of Alclud. Someone else had inadvertently brought a wineskin with him. Hueil took it, handed it to Arthur.

  The Pendragon swilled a mouthful, the wine was watered, he swallowed slowly.

  “I saw what happened, my Lord, I was further along the walk. She fell, I will challenge any who says otherwise.” Hueil had a deep voice that carried clear, carried further when the air was sharp with frost and ears were listening for tales for a tongue to spread.

  Taking another gulp of wine Arthur passed the skin to the next man along, then swivelled on his heel, stood facing Hueil. He could have the making of a good officer, this young cub, were it not for his arrogance. Pointedly, Arthur made reply. “If there is any need to answer a challenge, I am capable of doing so for myself.” He took one step so that his breath, cloud-misting in the cold air, spumed over Hueil’s face. “Though I doubt any man here would have thought of anything untoward until you brought it to mind.” He turned away, descended the steps and removing his cloak, covered the dead girl.

  What had he wanted these past months? A woman; companionship? Warmth and loving, to give as well as take. He had not wanted this, not wanted to spoil a young girl, end it for the both of them like this.

  For the second time that night he walked away from Elen. He had been up on the walkway, looking out into the dark. He too had seen that star fall. Only his mind had been elsewhere, to the north-west, away up to where the mountains touched the sky in Gwynedd, to Caer Arfon where Gwenhwyfar had gone with his sons two months short of a year since.

  He had not been aware of Elen, only that fluster of movement, the scrabbling for a handhold. He had run but had been too late, as he had been too late into the water to save Amr. And if he did not go to her soon, would be too late to make peace with Gwenhwyfar.

  And out of all this, all this loneliness and needing, it was Gwenhwyfar he wanted.

  XXVII

  Gwenhwyfar was kneeling on a ragged square of discarded cloak, tending the small patch of garden she had cherished in childhood. Spring had come early this year, the flowers blooming eagerly, with their bright, yellow heads nodding a welcome at the sun. Even the salt tang of the sea, that had roared and blustered through the long winter with malicious spite, smelt of the spring and a promise of warmer days to come.

  As she dug, turning over the soil ready for sowing, she hummed a lilting tune to herself, the words trickling and running silent in her mind. A robin hopped bright-eyed at a discreet distance, stabbing at an easy-gathered meal brought to the surface. Gwenhwyfar tossed him a particularly fat worm, smiled as he gobbled the thing down and bobbed a sort of thank you in return. You knew where you were with birds and animals. Not with people or men. Husbands.

  Her song was wistful, the words c
ame to her lips. “When the heart yearns for love and the day burns for night. I will come to you, once again. We will love, once again.” An empty song really, so mockingly hollow.

  “Hello Cymraes.”

  Gwenhwyfar gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, stifling the rise of a startled scream. With the same movement, her head jerked round, up; the outline of a man was shadowed against the bright glare of the low, spring sun.

  “You look well,” he said, for want of something better to say. “But then, the mountains have always agreed with you.”

  She replied with a shrug of one shoulder and raised her hand to shield her eyes. “The mountains are my home. I am content here.”

  They said nothing for a while, neither knowing what to say or how to say it.

  Plucking courage from empty air, Gwenhwyfar said; “I assume you have come to see your sons. Llacheu is with my brother Dogmail, he is teaching the boy to hunt.” Almost added, That ought to be your responsibility, but instead, waved her hand in a vague direction. “I know not where Gwydre is gone, somewhere around the Caer getting underfoot I expect. Probably near the pig runs, he has taken a liking to a runt born some days past.” Nervous, she was talking over-fast, the words gushing like water spouting from a cracked fountain.

  “I have seen him,” Arthur said, uncertain, his hands fiddling with his sword pommel for want of something better to do with them. “He was at the stables. He showed me his pony. A good choice for him.” Then, quicker, more eagerly, “Do you remember the pony you had as a child, Gwen?” He was trying to smile, finding it difficult to control this wanting to take her in his arms, to kiss and hold her, to never let her go. “Remember that moth-eaten bear-rug on legs?”

  Indignation. “He was not moth-eaten!”

  Arthur laughed then, the skin around his eyes wrinkling with amusement, his body relaxing the tautness. He extended both hands offering to help his wife up from her knees. “As I recall, that was your answer when I said those same words once before.”