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by Helen Hollick

Arthur was counting the stars. Six. Seven. “Possibly, but na, I think not. Were the Church to discover it she would lose all the ground she has so far made.”

  “She intends for her son to be the next Pendragon.” How could I say that so calmly, Gwenhwyfar wondered.

  Arthur sat up, sat as his wife, with arms around his knees. “Not while Llacheu lives.” He spoke firmly, committed. “Llacheu will be King after I am gone.” Somewhere along the opposite bank, a creature dived into the water, the splash followed by the alarm of disturbed ducks. More stars. The sky was quite dark now, the river too. The last time they had been together they had been beside a river.

  Standing, Arthur walked to the edge of the bank, stood looking down at the lazy current so slow here, this close to the sea. The tide would turn soon.

  He did not say that it was not Winifred’s interfering he feared, nor that the few Saex who were joined with Lot were insignificant. That it was Morgause he was after. Instead, he said into the gathering darkness, “Caer Arfon is not the same without your da. He was a good man, a man worth listening to. He would have enjoyed returning to take back the north with me.”

  “He would have liked to have seen our boys. Enniaun has given them both ponies, but Da would have enjoyed the doing.” Gwenhwyfar released a shaking breath, overfull of the sad memories of death.

  Arthur stood silent a long while, nursing his own thoughts of the same theme. Then he said, “I could not come, Cymraes, before this. I have no reason – I have been busy dealing with Ambrosius’s irritations and the building of my defensive work – my own attempt at irritation – but that is only an excuse. I just could not come.”

  It was her turn to remain silent. A bat fluttered past. “I understand, but it is none the easier to bear.” Tears threatened, she choked them down, she would not cry. Could not, there had been enough tears. “The understanding makes none of it easier.” It had not been his fault she had left him. It had been her decision, hers alone.

  Cloaked by the darkness, Arthur let go the deception, let his despair rise and break through the surface of his shield-wall. He had held it in for so long, this grief and loneliness. To the night he said, “I would that I could change everything, change the passing of time.” His voice cracked into a desperate sob. He squatted abruptly, burying his head on arms folded across his knees. The last time he had cried like this was as a child. When his father, the man he had loved but had never known in life to be his father, had been slaughtered by Vortigern in battle.

  Gwenhwyfar did not move. Once, she would have comforted him, held him close and showed warmth and love.

  Muffled, he said, “I am the all-powerful Pendragon. I can do almost anything I please except hold your love, and bring him back.”

  “Who?” she asked, deliberately obtuse. “Bring who back? Da or Amr?”

  “Both.” Arthur snapped his head up, defiant, the thin moon lit the pale, silvered streak of unchecked tears. Admitted the truth: “Amr.” He swallowed. “He haunts me. I see him still, drowning in that water. I struggle to save him but I can never reach his outstretched hands. I try and I try, but never can I reach him.”

  “Amr is dead.” Gwenhwyfar spoke flatly, remote and hardened. “He has been dead many months. Here among the mountains I have grieved for him.” Grieved for so much, she thought. For you, and you never came. “The tears stop. Eventually.”

  Arthur rose to his feet but made no attempt to move, feared she would flinch from him should he try to touch her. Feared the rejection.

  “You ought not to have left me, Gwenhwyfar.”

  “Ought I not?”

  He could see her eyes flash in the dim moonlight, knew all too well how their colours would be swirling in mixed shades of green behind flecks and sparks of tawny gold.

  “Not in anger. If you had waited it would have passed; would have eased. We could have shared our grief, made it the easier for both of us.” Arthur sighed, spread his hands helplessly. “You are still angry with me. Blame me.”

  Gwenhwyfar wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, absently rubbing her arms against the rising chill of night. “It took a long while for the grief to subside – not go, it will never go, but the hurt you give me, Arthur, will that ever subside? You wound me again and again and again. All I can do is fight you, learn how to hate where once I loved. I have to be angry because otherwise the hurting is too much, too great.”

  Arthur walked a few paces along the bank, watching the pattern of moonlight dazzle on the river. A mist was rising. “I learnt from childhood to shield my feelings, to hide my fears and grief. For all my life I have been lonely, with no one to turn to for comfort. I learnt early that anger smothers the pain. I learnt that at three summers of age, when the woman who I eventually discovered was my mother slapped my hand from her skirts, kicking me aside like a cur. Then I learnt to hate Morgause, Uthr’s whore, who treated me like dogshit and locked me in dark places as punishment. And later, there came Winifred to hate.” He was fiddling with the gold buckle of his baldric, his finger’s tracing its intricate pattern.

  “And for me? Has the hate now come for me also?” Gwenhwyfar asked.

  With his back to her he replied. “Amr was my son as much as he was yours.” He stared at the faint glint of gold beneath his fingers. “I could accept you leaving, Gwenhwyfar. Although I was bleeding inside, I knew why you had to run here to Gwynedd. But did you have to take my other two sons?” He turned to face her. “On that day I lost Amr and Llacheu and Gwydre. And you.”

  He bit his lip, stared a long while at the grass beneath his feet. “What do I feel for you?” Again he looked at her, his expression pleading, painful. “I made no attempt to stop you leaving, I told myself I did not need you – I could find a woman to keep me warm at night without adding the daytime demands of a wife.”

  He swallowed tears, his voice dropping to a choked whisper. “After a while I even convinced myself I had decided right.” He crossed the space between them in three strides, squatted beside her, his hands hovering, uncertain whether to touch her. “I seldom admit to being wrong, Gwen, in my position I cannot afford to do so, I must always seem assured – right – yet I am admitting it now. I have been wrong over this thing concerning you and me.”

  He turned his head from her, wiped his face with his hand, rubbing the stubble of beard growth, clearing the fall of tears. “Mithras help me, Cymraes, I have no idea how to put things aright between us. I can handle men, battle. But this aching inside me—it is beyond my strength to fight it.” He spread his hands, bowed his head, defeated.

  “Why did you come here?” Gwenhwyfar too was swallowing tears. “I was growing used to being without you.”

  “To ask Enniaun to join with me against Lot,” he lied, slamming a shield over the turmoil of his vulnerable emotions.

  Gwenhwyfar answered sharply, “Anyone could have done that! Cei, Geraint, a messenger. It did not need the Pendragon Lord himself to summon Enniaun to a hosting. I want the real reason!”

  He answered with the same whetted hostility, on the defence, attacking her sudden anger. “Gwynedd is my strongest ally. I have no wish to fight a few skirmishes with Lot. It is important I win the north and keep it. I needed to ensure Enniaun also shares that importance.”

  Gwenhwyfar laughed, scornful. “And I thought, for one stupid moment you had come to see me and your sons!” She scrabbled to her feet, spun on her heel and walked quickly away, up the slope heading for the wind-rustled trees. Her cloak snagged on a thistle, she snatched at it impatiently, hurried on.

  Arthur cursed beneath his breath, made after her. Why could he never express what he wanted to say in the way he intended? Why did his words always come out with the wrong meaning! In the darkness his foot caught in a molehill, he sprawled to his knees, a stab of pain shooting up his left arm. Cursing vividly, he climbed to his feet and the night spun a haze of blinding red and brilliant white. He swallowed the rising wave of nausea, stumbled, cradling the intense pain stabbing from his
wrist and up his forearm. Gwenhwyfar was nearing the trees; he might never catch her once she reached their shelter.

  Ignoring the pain he ran, caught up with her under the first night shadows of the dark canopy. Hearing his breathing, his running step, Gwenhwyfar too broke into a run. He pitched forward, bringing her down in a tumble of cloak and skirts, found he was fighting her.

  Gwenhwyfar was deceptively strong. Her slender figure gave her an appearance of mild gentleness, but childhood years of running with a pack of brothers had developed a skill that once acquired was never lost. She fought Arthur now, with all the ability she possessed.

  Lunging with her fist, she caught him square on the jaw. As he reeled, she rolled away from his grasp, rising to her feet in the same movement, but this time she did not run. Already he was getting up. She brought the hem of her skirt between her legs, tucked it through her waist belt, forming crude bracae, freeing her for movement.

  Arthur licked his lips, calmed his breathing and shut his mind to the throbbing pain spreading rapidly up his arm. That dagger wound Elen had given him was barely healed; he could do without the jagged tear ripping open. What was she going to do? Run, or fight this thing out? Gwenhwyfar’s moods were as tempestuous as a summer storm. It was difficult in the dark, an opponent could usually be judged by the eyes, that brief flicker of movement preceding action. But he could not see her eyes so well in the poor light beneath the trees.

  She feinted right, pretending to run. Arthur stepped swiftly into her path, grunting as she spun aside, her leg catching behind his, tripping him. He caught her as he fell, bringing her down with him, their bodies rolling down the embankment out onto the moonlit meadow. For a moment they struggled, neither gaining a hold until Arthur managed to pin her arms above her head. Straddling her, he knelt over her. She was breathing heavily; let her body fall limp, submissive. He relaxed and her knee rammed into his groin, her body arching to tip him sideways. Before he hit the ground she was up, her foot slamming into his stomach.

  “Mithras,” he hissed, “if that is how you wish it.” He removed his sword and baldric, let the weapon fall to the grass and tore the gold brooch from his shoulder, freeing his cloak. Winding it around his left arm he pulled the initial fold as tight as he could to act as a support against his injured wrist and the sticky feel of welling blood from that dagger wound. Using the thing as a shield, he circled, watching her, waiting for the right moment to spring.

  When he chose to move she anticipated well, darting aside beyond reach. The second time he lunged she repeated her action, but on the third stepped forward to meet him, her hip thrusting, knocking his body, disrupting his balance. He had expected it. Arthur knew how well Gwenhwyfar could fight, also knew her tricks.

  He swivelled to counteract her, his right arm encircled her waist, spun her on her own momentum, sending her sprawling into the damp grass.

  “Had enough?” he panted.

  She kicked with her leg making him jump aside, allowing her time to rise. Then she came at him with her dagger.

  For a moment Arthur found he was in trouble. Again and again he parried her blade with his cloak shield, found he was facing a wildcat intent on doing damage. He let her fury fly, for she had to release the anger and pain. He dared not draw his own dagger. He backed steadily away, letting her drive at him, do the attacking, letting her become the more winded and tired. When he was ready, judging the timing with skilled practice, he blocked her, striking upwards with his fist, hitting her jaw harder than he intended.

  Gwenhwyfar crumpled and lay still.

  Tossing his cloak aside, Arthur knelt beside her, desperately anxious. He patted her face, called her name. Oh Mithras blood, he had hit her too hard! Relief whooshed from his held breath as her eyelids fluttered.

  As consciousness returned, Gwenhwyfar brought her hand back and swiped feebly at him, he blocked it easily enough, holding her hand tight in his own as he knelt over her. Words, some angry, some downright obscene, chased through his mind, none reached his lips. Instead, he covered her mouth with his. She answered him, her mouth seeking his, her arms going around his shoulders, drawing him down, closer.

  Their lovemaking was as fierce and intense as their fighting.

  Arthur left to ride north at sunrise. Enniaun, with Gwynedd’s fighting men, intended to follow within the passing of a few days.

  Proud on the fine-bred grey pony his uncle had given him, Llacheu rode chatting joyfully to Geraint. Somewhere behind with the baggage mules travelled Gwydre, Enid and Nessa. Gwenhwyfar rode beside Arthur. As far as Caer Luel, she had said. I will come as far as Caer Luel. No further.

  Arthur watched her as she rode; she caught him looking, saw that boyish grin spread across his mouth. Announced curtly, “If you say one word about last night, Pendragon, I will ensure your men know how you came to injure your wrist.”

  His expression was innocent amazement. “I was not going to say anything!”

  They rode on for almost one quarter of a mile. Then, without one hint of a smile or mischievous grin, he added, “Tonight, though, I’ll show you what I was thinking.”

  Gwenhwyfar tried not to laugh.

  April 462

  XXIX

  Winifred combed Cerdic’s hair, chiding him for fidgeting. “But you’re pulling, it hurts!”

  “You’ll have a lot more hurts than pulled hair to endure before you grow old my lad!” his mother scolded. She tucked the comb under her arm, inspected the boy’s neat cleanliness. Spitting on her finger, she wiped at a dirt mark on his cheek, satisfied, released him with a curt, “You’ll do.”

  “Why all this fuss anyway?” he asked, scuffing the floor with his sandals. To himself muttered, “Anyone would think this poxed Ambrosius was already king or something.”

  Unfortunate that Winifred heard. She grabbed hold of his arm, turning him roughly to face her with a strict reprimanding shake. “Insolent boy,” she hissed, to herself added, “how like your bastard father you are!” She took both his arms in her hands, squatted before him so that her eyes were level with his.

  “Listen to me, child, and listen well. Ambrosius Aurelianus will be riding through that gate,” she dipped her head over her left shoulder, “at any moment. He is to be greeted and treated with full respect. Do you understand me?” She gave the boy a shake again to emphasise her meaning.

  Cerdic nodded, dutifully agreed. Better not antagonise her too much; her moods had been hard enough to endure as it was these past weeks. Like a bear with an arrow wound his mother, lately.

  “Arthur, your father, has patched his differences with his uncle. They are not exactly reconciled, but have at least agreed to differ.” And that could put an end to her plans. Damn Arthur, damn him to Hell!

  Cerdic shrugged, so what?

  His mother caught the gesture, shook the boy harder. “Do you not see, child? If the Pendragon is killed in this war with Lot of the North, Ambrosius will become supreme. It will be up to Ambrosius to appoint the next king!” She did not add, It must be Cerdic, it will be my Cerdic!

  So Cerdic promised to keep himself clean and trotted away, running as soon as he was out of his mother’s sight. There was a large old tree at the junction of the steading’s track and the road that snaked down from Venta Bulgarium. He’d get a good view of Ambrosius and his men approaching.

  The sky was slate-grey, there would be more rain soon. The track up to the farmsteading was drying out, but remained muddied enough to mark his sandals and the hem of his new white tunic. Cerdic, clinging along the lowest bough of his tree, shivered. The wind was shifting, coming in from the sea. The tide was turning, probably. Cerdic liked the sea. He wanted to go in one of the great Jute longships one day, if ever his mother would relent and let him visit her grandfather. He had seen them, those wonderful ships, battling against a storm swell or sailing gracefully before a summer wind.

  Horses. Ambrosius was coming.

  Cerdic swung down from his perch, stood with arms folded, legs straddle
d. He watched critically as the first riders swept past at a jog trot, stepped forward, his hand held upright as Ambrosius’s horse approached. The man commanded a halt, drew his mount to a stand. He regarded Cerdic a moment before solemnly raising his own hand in greeting.

  “Cerdic.” The boy had his father’s eyes and the Pendragon nose – except there was something more behind that precocious expression. Haughtiness? Superiority? Sa, that was it. Ambrosius shifted in the saddle, an uncomfortable feeling, being regarded as an insignificant by a seven-year-old boy.

  Cerdic nodded assent, his lips pursing. His upraised hand had been intended as a signal to halt, not a polite greeting. “You have come to talk with my mother. She is not happy with the written treaty you have made with my father. Neither am I.”

  Ambrosius lifted his eyebrows. “Are you not?”

  Cerdic missed the adult sarcasm. “My mother says you intend to be king after my father has gone; that you will ignore my valid claim to be the next king.”

  Ambrosius, as with all his family, was a tall man. He sat his horse regarding the boy, in a mind not to answer but to ride directly on. There was much for him to do and he had no time to waste with small, impudent boys. He also wished to get this coming interview with Winifred over and done with and be on his way. She would not like being told that another had been appointed as Abbess at Venta, nor would she much like having her own mind overturned. Ambrosius had no liking for the woman, in fact, bitterly regretted being so influenced by her. It galled him to admit the small truth that Winifred was manipulative and greedy for the material things of life, with the needs of God coming a distant second. Galled even more to acknowledge that the Pendragon was mayhap right in some things. About his first wife, Winifred, the child of Vortigern being one, and, it seemed, looking at this flaxen-haired, chubby boy, the ambitious intent of his son, Cerdic, for another. Knowing the Pendragon as he did, and looking upon the boy’s arrogance, Ambrosius realised that Arthur was justified in disliking the lad, for all he was of his own flesh and blood. There was too much Saex greed in him.