In return, Cerdic stared at Ambrosius. He saw a man in his late thirties with receding hair and a thin-fleshed face. He had been ill, so his mother said. Was there any family resemblance? Did Ambrosius share any feature with Arthur? Eyes, cheekbones, chin? Cerdic did not know, for he had never seen his father. Wanted to meet him – oh aye, wanted to meet the man who detested his own son and made no secret he wished him dead. Wanted to meet him because Cerdic fully intended to kill his father. He dreamt about it often, planned the event to the smallest detail. A death by dagger or sword, an execution for the hatred and misery the father had caused the son and the first wife. Standing looking so intently at Ambrosius Aurelianus, Cerdic decided that perhaps he, too, ought be removed. He did not like the man. Liked him even less when he at last answered.
“I have no intention of becoming a king, boy. It is a title I oppose. If death befalls your father before his son has come of age, then I will take the full legal title of Governor of All Britain. Until then, I remain Comes Britanniarum, Governor of Britannia Secunda.”
Cerdic had bristled at the reference to son. It was not himself this man referred to, but that other boy, Llacheu. Through clenched teeth he said, “I am the Pendragon’s son. I will be king after him.”
Ambrosius nudged his horse into a walk, his entourage moving off with him. All he said to the boy was, “We shall see.”
Cerdic watched the group of men ride up the track, followed a short way, to see his mother come out the house, curtsey obedience to the British man. Inside, they would share wine and bread and meat, and talk of the future. Winifred was intent on ensuring that Ambrosius, now he was allied to Arthur, still agreed to her position as legal and only wife to the Pendragon. Their divorce, she maintained, had not been accepted by his Holiness, the Christian Pope in Rome; ergo, she was still the Pendragon’s wife, Cerdic his only legitimate son.
Cerdic decided to go fishing. Having met Ambrosius, having seen that look of undisguised scorn for a Saex-born boy, he felt there would be no sympathetic help from Ambrosius Aurelianus when the time came to fight for the royal torque and the Pendragon banner.
Cerdic was only seven years old, but already he knew these things, and knew also that one day, one day, he would be King of Britain.
May 462
XXX
“Damn this rain!” Cei burst into Arthur’s tent, dripping water over the hard-stamped floor. The dog, Cabal, pricked his ears at the disturbance, lifted his head but seeing it was Cei, a friend, flopped back to sleep, stretching his belly with a sigh of contentment to the warmth of the brazier. Cei flung back the hood of his saturated cloak and shook himself much as Cabal, were he wet, would have done.
“Do come in Cei,” Arthur drawled, without glancing up from the parchment he was reading. “Why not make it as wet in here as it is out there?”
Cei scowled across the tent and throwing the cloak to Arthur’s skinny boy slave strode with a half-audible growl to the central brazier, kicking Cabal aside to be nearer the warmth. He rubbed his hands before it a moment then stood warming his buttocks, a thin wisp of steam rising from his damp clothing.
Arthur was stretched the length of his rumpled sleeping cot, boots muddied, legs gaitered, shoulders supported by a rolled saddle blanket. At his elbow was a table and a flagon of wine. In one hand, a half empty pewter tankard, in the other, the letter from Gwenhwyfar. It had come with the supplies. Already its edges were crumpled and bent from his reading and re-reading of it.
Looking up, Arthur studied his cousin a moment: a big man, muscular, with a bull neck, deep chest and broad shoulders. His square chin jutted from an equally square, hard-lined face, which carried an expression of displeasure all too often found there these days. Inverted eyebrows drooped with the taut, disapproving mouth. Cei was angry about something. Again. When was he not? Draining the wine, Arthur replaced his tankard on the table and unravelled the parchment that had rolled up on itself. He scanned the writing, finding the passage where he had left off and continued reading. He could hear her voice as he read the words; see her laughing, smiling face. By the gods, how he missed her!
“It is well that some of us are able to idle our time,” Cei muttered crossly.
Arthur ignored him.
Irritably, Cei crossed to a second, larger table strewn – as was usual for Arthur – by a multitude of maps, unread letters and parchments. He uncovered another tankard and inspected its inside for cleanliness. A distasteful sound left his lips. “Call this clean, boy?” He thrust the thing at the slave who was holding Cei’s saturated cloak before a second brazier in a valiant attempt to dry it. “This is disgustingly filthy – like the rest of this tent. Look at the place. A midden heap!” Emphasising his displeasure, Cei prodded the muddle on the table with his finger and then kicked at a discarded wine flagon that lay abandoned on the floor.
The boy dropped the cloak in a ragged heap and ran to take the tankard with a spate of profuse apologies. He scurried away out into the rain, promising to clean it immediately.
“You are over soft on him, Arthur. He needs a sound thrashing.”
Letting the parchment spring to a loose roll before starting to wind it tighter, Arthur commented, “You are in a delightful mood this day.” He swung his legs from the cot. Sitting on the edge he stretched and yawned, sniffed loudly, then peered hopefully into the wine flagon, wrinkling his nose to discover it empty. That was the last of the best wine. He sighed. Barley-brewed ale from here on.
“The patrol was not good I assume?” he said, returning his attention to his glowering cousin.
“The patrol,” came the sharp retort, “was a God-cursed useless waste of time.”
Eyes sparking amusement, Arthur said with annoying cheeriness, “Bad as a wet laundry day, eh?”
In his sour mood, Cei failed to appreciate the teasing humour. Instead, the remark brought forth an upsurge of exasperation and discontent. “For three days, Arthur,” he railed, stalking around the small confine of Arthur’s tent, “we have encamped here. Enniaun ought have joined with us by now.” He stopped before Arthur, hand gesticulating. “Let us face facts. He is not coming. Why should he march from Gwynedd? What interest has he in the old hunting runs of his dead father?”
“He has a great interest, Cei,” Arthur answered with quiet conviction, all humour gone. He raised an eyebrow, looked directly, almost challengingly at his cousin. “He will be here.”
Cei faltered, startled by the conviction of that bland statement. He turned away, back to the brazier. “That is as may be,” he changed verbal direction, attacking from an alternative level, “but for how much longer are you intending to hang your head and allow these northern curs to harass our patrols and thieve our supplies?” His arms were whirling with grievance. “The rain soaks through clothing and tents; the wind is bitter cold and the horses are kicking and snapping at each other with bad temper – as are most of the men. We are wasting valuable time idling our heels here, and damn it,” Cei kicked savagely at a table leg. “All you do is sit on your backside,” he kicked a second time, harder, “reading!”
Arthur scratched the base of his neck. How he would like a bath! His belly rumbled. “What has happened to supper, I wonder?” He spoke the thought aloud, stretching a second time, easing the muscles along his shoulders. Pushing himself lazily to his feet, he ambled past the angry Cei towards the closed tent flap, running a finger as he passed across the muddle on top of his worktable. With a scowl, he peered out into the darkening evening. Rain was falling straight down like an opaque curtain, drumming on the leather tent, spattering waterlogged ground, the drops leaping and dancing. The grass, churned and muddied, had rivulets of water forming a series of channels seeking a way to lower ground. There would be flooding on the flat, the rivers would be high too. At least here among the ruins of a Roman fort there was shelter enough to light the cooking fires. The men had eaten well these past few days – one grumble they could not toss at him! Game was in plentiful supply here, north of
the Wall.
Gweir was returning at a quick trot, head down, shoulders hunched against the rain, the cleaned tankard clutched tight in both hands. The lad needed a cloak.
Arthur stepped aside to allow the boy entrance, taking the drinking vessel from him as he did so. “Not much point of a clean tankard,” he said, bending slightly lower so as to be nearer the boy’s ear, and thrusting his nose into the lad’s face, “when I have nothing to put in it.”
The boy reddened and stumbled a horrified apology.
Good-natured, Arthur laughed and ruffled the lad’s wet hair. He was ten summers old, although it could be one more or one less, and not particularly proficient as a personal slave, but Arthur liked him. He had found the boy, huddled and wretched, in the darkness of what remained of the Principia building back at Vercovicium: a ragged, hungry, frightened boy with tearstains on his grimed face, hiding amongst the rubble.
“What’s your name?” Arthur had asked, holding the squirming child at a safe distance, mindful of the frantically kicking feet, lunging fists and things crawling in matted hair and filthy clothing.
“That be my business!” the lad had spat, struggling to be free of Arthur’s restraining hold.
“Wrong.” Arthur had bundled the lad without ceremony down the hill and into the nearest water for a thorough dowsing. “As from now, it is my business also.”
The boy’s burst of outrage at being taken as slave evaporated with the discovery of who this man, callously dunking him in cold river water, was. Inside the passing of a day the boy worshipped his new master, went around – even through this pouring fall of rain – with a grin as broad as an oak trunk. When the men from the north had come raiding they had slain his family and claimed the stock. Lying low until they had gone, Gweir had survived as best he could. Had he known the wonders he would discover as slave to Arthur the King, he would not have taken such fright when the soldiers rode into the fort where he was taking shelter. But then, if the boy had not put up such a spirited fight when Arthur had found him hiding, the Pendragon would never have established that first basis of liking.
Gweir whirled on his heel and disappeared into the rain once more, trotting in the direction of the stores wagons, his bare feet pattering among the puddles, kicking up spray and mud.
He needs boots, Arthur thought. Aloud, he said, “The boy has nothing save the rags on his back. I ought to have attended that afore now. Fetch my supper too!” he shouted to the departing figure. “My belly is growling!”
Waving an acknowledging hand, Gweir ducked through the rain, jumping the gullies of running water.
Cei sounded a disparaging snort as Arthur, chuckling quietly, ambled back to the table, his hand fondling Cabal’s ears as he passed the sleeping dog. “You treat the wretch as if he were a son, Arthur. A witless, lazy, good for nothing -you ought to sell him to someone who would teach him a few harsher lessons if you have not the heart to do so.
“To you?” Arthur queried, glancing at Cei who was seating himself on the tent’s only stool.
“I would not treat him as softly as you do.”
Placing both hands on the table the Pendragon leant forward, smiling lazily. “What is it with you lately, Cei? You are as sour as ruined wine. Gweir is just a boy. A homeless, lost, British boy who has known nought but a life of harsh words and herding sheep. Until a few days past he had never seen a fine-made tankard, let alone Roman wine to slop into it!”
“I will tell you what is wrong with me,” Cei stormed, stamping to his feet, angered at this unnecessary lecture. “I am sick to death of tramping these cursed hills. Sick to death of getting wet; of waiting for your brother-by-law who is not going to come. And I am sick to the stomach of your damned good humour!”
Arthur laughed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest, his facial skin wrinkling into creases around his eyes and mouth. Chuckling, he strode from behind the table, his arm extending to wrap across Cei’s ox-muscled shoulders. “I would have argued, my friend,” he thumped Cei’s back, “that my good mood was a thing to be welcomed. How often have you complained about the opposite?” He lightly scuffed Cei’s hair, as he had the lad’s. “Enniaun will be here soon, you have my word.” He could be so certain, sound so assured, for Gwenhwyfar’s letter had confirmed it. Enniaun had passed through Caer Luel riding north into the hills as he and Arthur had planned, although her couched words had been damned difficult to decipher. Idle? Mithras, it had taken him half the day to interpret her hidden meaning! They had to be careful, take no risks, for letters could too easily fall into enemy hands, secrets must be kept safe, but Blood of the Bull, Gwenhwyfar’s phrasing was too cryptic. “Then we can move north and begin the business we came here for.” He snorted another guffaw. “I can do nothing to stop the rain, mind,” he slapped Cei’s back the harder. “Meanwhile, we stay within the limits of the terrain we know. And wait.”
Gweir returned, cleared a space on the table and set down a bowl, uncovering it to reveal steaming stew, then poured barley-beer from a jug. Hungry, Arthur began to eat, spooning thick venison gravy supplemented with herbs and root vegetables. Through a mouthful, he told the boy, “My cousin is right. This tent is a mess.” Swallowing, added gruffly, “Get it tidied – but do not touch my table.”
Looking about him, Gweir ran his hands through straggling, greasy hair and puffed out his cheeks. He might as well try to stop the rain as clear the wake of Arthur’s scattered debris! He had already made several attempts to tidy the place, but whenever he began clearing away the muddle of strewn papers, discarded clothing and military paraphernalia, Arthur, who seemed to be forever within the tent, always bellowed at him to “Cease that infernal rustling!” Gweir bent and began sorting a muddle of muddied, damp clothing strewn in one corner, his fingers dwelling over the softness of the quality weave.
Warmer, dried, his humour improving, Cei rubbed the side of his nose, scratched behind his ear, tentatively suggested, “Would you ride patrol tomorrow, Arthur?”
Swallowing a mouthful, Arthur spooned more meat. “I’ll consider it.”
Cei helped himself to more beer. “Knowing your damned luck it’ll stop raining by morning.”
Laughing, Arthur agreed to go, even if it still rained. He noticed Gweir. “Oh for the Bull’s sake, boy, stop fiddling with that bundle of clothing and fetch more of this stew. A bowl for Cei also.”
The boy sighed. Letting his arms open, he allowed the garments to tumble to the floor in a heap. He had begun to wonder if Arthur’s other slave had also had this same problem to deal with. Had he deliberately fallen down those steps at Caer Luel? The pain of a broken leg was worth enduring for a while if it meant a rest from trying to accomplish what was impossible! He paused just inside the tent opening, gloomily looking out at the pouring rain. Aye, and a good long lie in a dry bed.
“Gweir!” The lad spun around at Arthur’s sharp, commanding voice. What else could be amiss? Arthur was squatting on his heels, rummaging through the bundle that Gweir had dropped; he straightened, holding a plaid-weave cloak and tossed it casually at the boy.
“Take this as your own,” the Pendragon said, “and after you have fetched the stew, go to Gaius and tell him to fit you a pair of boots.”
Gweir caught the cloak and stood clutching it to him with his mouth open, unbelieving. He had owned nothing save rags afore now, nothing as grand as a plaid cloak and a pair of boots!
“For me?” he managed to croak, gazing with new heights of adoration at the man before him. “Be this for me?”
“What?” Arthur rumbled, “Is it not good enough for you? I suppose you’ll be wanting a damned new tunic to go with it? Get yourself one while you’re about your boots – and bracae. We will come in for some hard marching within a few days like as not. I can’t have a snivelling boy whining about his cold feet and balls, trotting at my heels.”
Gweir began to stammer thanks, but Arthur cut him short. “I am tired of having a rough-shorn tup mooning around my tent. If you’re
dressed in the part of a king’s slave mayhap you’ll start doing your duties like one!”
His face alight, Gweir nodded eagerly, and clutching the cloak to him, scuttled out into the night.
“You spoil the brat. Give it a few months and he’ll be no good to you,” Cei warned, wagging his finger.
“Given time, and then the right training,” Arthur corrected, “he has the making of the next generation of Artoriani. I need such boys, Cei. For boys become men.”
XXXI
By early afternoon of the next day, the drenching rain had eased to a pattering drizzle, then stopped altogether, leaving a dull, leaden sky pressing heavily over brooding hills and rain-sodden trees. Ground squelched beneath hooves, churned into caking mud, which covered horses’ legs and spattered their bellies and their riders’ boots. The biting wind from the north-east had veered. It still blustered like a crusty, foul-tempered old gentleman, but had at least lost some of the jagged bite.
Arthur rode at ease in the saddle, his body moving with the horse’s dancing stride, the leather creaking a soporific rhythm. One hand rested on his thigh, the other held Hasta’s reins with the lightest touch; the animal, with head high and ears pricked, was as fresh as he had been at the beginning of the day, though they had covered many miles since the rain-wet dawn. Behind the Pendragon, a few men of the patrol talked quietly between themselves, their voices no more than the rustle of wind in the trees. They had seen or heard no sound, other than that of nature, all morning. There seemed nothing out of place in this narrow, peaceful valley.
Hasta snatched at a branch, stripping the leaves as he passed, letting the thing swish back as he let go. Raindrops cascading in a shower over Arthur found their way down his neck and he swore under his breath. The horse, chewing contentedly, flicked his ears at his rider’s voice – then halted, abrupt, alert, ears pricking, blowing nostrils scenting the wind. Alarmed, Hasta snorted and attempted to duck sideways, brought to an immediate halt by pressure from Arthur’s heel, calf and tightening of reins.
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