Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  On what had once been an immaculately terraced lawn but now sprouted more moss and weeds than grass, her two sons were playing noisily with Llacheu’s young pup, a birthday gift from Arthur. The dog was barking wildly, circling the laughing boys as they teased it to catch a dangling piece of sacking. Gwenhwyfar joined their delight as the animal leapt, caught the thing in his teeth and with much growling, shook his prize furiously, then took off with it at a run, the boys tumbling in squealing pursuit.

  Someone added his laughter. Gwenhwyfar turned, startled, half hoping that Arthur had come home and saw Bedwyr approaching. She stood, held her hands outstretched to him with a wide, pleased, smile of welcome.

  “Bedwyr! I had not expected your early return. How went the hunting?”

  “Well enough for us to enjoy an excellent feast this evening. God’s Grace, but the weather is uncommonly pleasant for the time of year.” He had reached her, took her hands, kissed her on both cheeks. He screwed his eyes at the glare in the pale-washed, low-hanging winter sun. “Though I grant the water has a film of ice on it of a morning.” He still had hold of her hands.

  “Bright and sunny it might be, but I’ve grown cold sitting out here.” Gwenhwyfar retrieved her hands and threaded her arm through his for the benefit of warmth and friendship. “Come, walk with me a while.”

  Together, they negotiated a flight of foot-worn stone steps and made their way along an overgrown, winding path, Bedwyr kicking aside evergreen shrubs and dead-leaved plants. They talked of minor things, Bedwyr of the day’s hunting, Gwenhwyfar of Llacheu’s pup, of the garden, of the horses wintering in the pastures beyond the Caer walls, of friends and family. Once or twice of Arthur. When Gwenhwyfar admitted she regretted not riding with her husband, as he had asked of her, Bedwyr stopped short and placing both hands over his heart, pretended to stagger backwards.

  “What? You would be parted from me? Ah, but I am sorely wounded.” He turned away, threw his arm against a tree, imitated sobbing. “She wants to leave me, loves me not!”

  Gwenhwyfar playfully slapped the brown hair growing thick and curled on his head. “Fool!” He was a burst of spring sunshine on a rainy day, always laughing, always jesting or telling some amusing tale. The boys loved him. He was almost one with them, for his merriment was that of a child. She added, chuckling, “More like the departure of my handmaid would bring you grief, you rogue!”

  Bedwyr feigned wounded innocence. “I am as pure as a nun’s white undergarments, my Lady!”

  Gwenhwyfar crumpled into deeper laughter, re-threaded her arm through his and walked him forward. “And how would you be knowing of things such as a nun’s private apparel?” They turned onto a second path that skirted the rear wall of the guest chambers.

  Bedwyr squeezed her hand, said low, almost into her ear, “Not all nuns are as chaste as they would like us to assume.”

  With a mock disapproving frown, Gwenhwyfar brushed his hand from hers. “I say again, Bedwyr ap Ectha, you are a rogue!” They had stopped once more, standing close, their laughter at his absurdity dancing with the dappled afternoon sunlight. Impulsive, Gwenhwyfar placed a light kiss on Bedwyr’s cheek, her hands resting on his chest. “You would cheer the dullest place, Bedwyr. Glad I am that you are here.”

  Suddenly serious, an experience rare in one known for his quick and constant humour, he replied, “Glad I am to be here, my Lady,” his brown eyes casting direct into her green.

  Her heart thump-thumped with a leap of mixed feelings. Alarm, excitement, flattery. They were standing so close. If he kissed her, she would respond, kiss him back… . She caught her breath, what madness was this? Playfully, she pushed him from her, said with light gaiety, “You’d have me believing you travelled all the way from Rome just to be near me, next.”

  Stunned, astonished, he replied, “But I did! Why else would I come to a place that is normally cold enough to freeze a man’s balls off?” He scooped her hand, brought it quickly to his lips. “For you, my beloved and fairest of all women, would I travel beyond the edge of the world.” He held his arms out, then let them fall with a slap to his side, added with an indifferent shrug, “Save, I would need to return by nightfall or else my Nessa would find some other to warm her bed.” He cavorted a few strides then swept her a bow. “I am away to the bath-house, assuming the water is hotter than the ice-pool it was yester eve. ‘Til we dine, my Lady, I bid thee fare well.”

  Gwenhwyfar watched him go, walking jauntily, his arms swinging, head back, singing out of tune at the top of his voice. He disappeared around the corner. It had grown colder, the clouds were hustling the winter blue sky, crowding in great packs of silver- and gold-edged, shadow-shaded grey. She gathered her cloak tighter around her shoulders, shivered and rubbed her hands together. Her fingers were quite numb.

  The harsh, unmelodious call of a mobbed crow caused her to glance up and a movement at one of the small, square windows arrested her attention. Someone had been watching! Gwenhwyfar sucked in her angry breath, released it slowly. Morgause. Spying on her, her evil presence permeating even out here into the winter-straddled gardens. Arthur ought never to have lodged her in the guest chambers. The prison cells, or better still, an unmarked grave, was the more appropriate! But no, Arthur had his own plan, his own decision, and so Morgause was made comfortable. The ride back along the Wall, returning here to Caer Luel, had been tense, with an atmosphere of hostility between the two royal women. Gwenhwyfar had assumed Arthur would send Morgause to a distant place for safe holding and that they, with their boys, would ride to a comfortable place for the duration of winter. Into Gwynedd for instance, returning with Enniaun or Cei, whose wife lodged with her parents on the shores of Bala Lake. But no, her husband had decided to make Caer Luel their winter residence.

  “Aye, you bitch,” she said, tossing her words up at the window, “you think you can hold Arthur, tempt him with your beguiling smile. Well you try it, just you try it!” She swung away, walked with quick steps back to the main garden where she called to her sons that she was returning inside.

  Morgause frightened her – Arthur feared her too, although he would never admit it. Gwenhwyfar’s fear ran with a personal dread, for Morgause was an alluring, beautiful woman, a woman who caught the eyes and lusts of men. And Arthur enjoyed beautiful women. She forced such dark thoughts aside. Rumour around the Caer was that he had gone away to escape her, his wife, but it was not true. They had exchanged worse quarrels than those hurled between them recently about Morgause – and the night together before he had left for the south was far from disagreeable. She smiled at the intimate memory of their loving. She should have gone with him, he had begged her to, but like a fool she had refused. The prospect of travelling in cold, wet winter weather had not appealed, but then, were things much better here at Caer Luel?

  Oh she would like to know who it was who started all these vicious, spiteful rumours. The Caer had been a welcoming place before Morgause had come. It was she who stirred things, with her oh so seductive smile. Gwenhwyfar banged through the door into the palace, startling the watch guard and drawing the attention of several servants. Let them gawp, they were always so eager to think the worst and go tattling, skirts hitched, to tell Morgause the latest gossip.

  Arthur should have had her hanged!

  She slowed her wild pace as she came closer to her own chamber. Arthur should have had an end to her up in the north, not brought her here, or anywhere. She was trouble, Morgause.

  LV

  “It is good that we have patched our differences, Arthur.”

  Arthur sniffed loudly, moved aside to allow a woman to squeeze past, wondered whether to voice his true thoughts at Ambrosius or not.

  “Let us say we have agreed to tolerate each other.”

  Ambrosius waved greeting to an acquaintance, spoke briefly to another, nodding and smiling, standing as though he were some royal figure receiving acclaim. Arthur knew several people here, milling in the forecourt before the amphitheatre, but liked none
of them. One or two offered ingratiating smiles, received no response for their effort. The noble residents of Aquae Sulis were a shallow lot, of Ambrosius’s ilk. Pure Roman, clinging, determined, to their generations-bred life-style; Arthur held no time for them. The Council, concluded now, had at least been passably worthwhile with some, small, public agreement reached. That was something.

  He accepted wine from a serving girl, sipped; tolerably good stuff. The play they were waiting to see was a bastion of normality for this Roman town. Their theatre, their games, laws and rites, were unaltered Roman. Aquae Sulis had not been terrorised by sea-wolves, and trade, dignity and superiority still flourished in abundance although the decay was creeping in. Cracking walls and derelict buildings – even the famous bath-house had fallen into disrepair.

  Ambrosius finished his conversation, turned again to Arthur and said entirely unexpectedly, “Your wife is here, did you know?”

  Arthur swallowed quickly, a heart-thud of surprised pleasure. Gwenhwyfar? Here after all? She had refused to come with him, although he had asked, almost pleaded; she said she had no wish to spend several weeks among pompous old fools fussing and farting over irrelevancies. He peered about him, at the throng of people, easing now as they began to enter the theatre proper to take their seats. “Here literally or here in town?” he asked.

  “In town, although possibly attending this play also, that I do not know. I am not well acquainted with the Lady Winifred’s engagements.”

  Expression souring, Arthur drained his goblet, handed the empty vessel to a passing slave. Winifred. Not Gwenhwyfar. He should have realised. Gwenhwyfar would have come direct to him, fool to have hoped it was her. Fool, to be so disappointed.

  “She has, I believe,” Ambrosius continued, beginning to amble towards the entrance, “brought your son with her.”

  For a heartbeat Arthur almost hit him. His fist had been clenched, begun to draw back, but he took a deep breath, forcibly relaxed his arm muscles, his fingers.

  “Winifred,” he said, with an over-politeness that screeched of his displeasure and annoyance, “is not my wife.” He met Ambrosius’s eyes, stared pointedly. “Until you realise and accept that fact Ambrosius, there can never be, will never be, an end to this animosity that slithers so potent between us.”

  Ambrosius Aurelianus was a tall man, although not as tall as Arthur. He returned the direct gaze eye to eye, unflinching. After all, Arthur’s father, Uthr, had been his elder brother, and Uthr had glowered just as fiercely on occasion. He probed the inside of his cheek with his tongue, dropped his gaze, spread his hands in submission. “We are here to see fine actors, a rare treat, let us enjoy ourselves this afternoon, my nephew, not quarrel.” He took Arthur’s elbow, guided him beneath the entrance arch. They were almost through, the tiers of filling seats rising ahead of them, when Ambrosius added, “For what it is worth, Pendragon, I share your dislike of the woman and have no intention, should some tragedy befall yourself, of allowing her breed-less son access to a British title.”

  Arthur stopped short, amazed. Had he heard aright here?

  Ambrosius had walked on a few paces. He too stopped, turned and smiled at his nephew, eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and threat. “You see, I do not oppose you in everything, Arthur. Some things I agree with whole-hearted. You must accept, mind, that I may not recognise Gwenhwyfar’s sons either.” He gestured for Arthur to proceed with him, indicating the crowd pressing behind. “Though I admit your eldest, Llacheu, would, below myself, be obvious choice to take command – when he has become a man of course.”

  Droll, Arthur answered, “Of course.”

  Ambrosius was threading his way along the row of seats, found his and gestured for Arthur to be seated beside him.

  “And does this sudden preference,” Arthur asked, prodding his cushion into a more comfortable shape, “extend to accepting the title of king?”

  Ambrosius folded his cloak across his knees, answered with a broad grin, “One thing at a time, Pendragon, one turnabout at a time.”

  Cerdic watched little of the play, engrossed as he was in studying the man seated in the centre rows, where the important men were. So, this was his father, Arthur, the great Pendragon. He was disappointed. He had expected a large man with bulging muscles, haughty eyes, proud carriage, perhaps wearing armour, most definitely decked in jewels. The Archbishop Patricius, God rest his soul, had seemed more regal than the man sitting over there, laughing and clapping and entering the full spirit of this comic play. A king, a supreme king such as his father called himself, should surely behave moderately, with dignity and grace, not storm to his feet shouting and guffawing in common with the audience? And Cerdic had expected his father to be handsome, but his nose was large, his hair in need of cutting and combing, and wanting a shave too. All the man had were a few rings, a gold torque around his throat and two ordinary cloak pins. A king ought dress like a king, behave like a king.

  Cerdic would, for certain, when he became king.

  February 464

  LVI

  Llacheu and Gwydre had placed themselves to the side of Caer Luel’s banqueting hall, close to the back where the flickering of hearth-fire and lamp shadow had, with luck, allowed two boys to pass unnoticed. Llacheu squatted, sharing his dish of boiled eggs with his brother. Gwydre was grinning, his mouth and chin splotched with dribbled egg-yolk, his wooden spoon dipping industriously into the delicious sauce of ground pine kernels, pepper and lovage mixed with honey and vinegar. The boys cared little for the recipe, all they knew was that it tasted good.

  The King’s Hall was full to bursting with invited men and women of the Caer and officers and selected men of the Artoriani. They squashed along benches, elbowing for room, hands reaching and scrabbling for food, the dishes passing the length of the trestle tables, wine and ale flowing from jug to tankard to mouth. Above it all, the ululation of voices: talking, laughing, exchanging jest or friendly disagreement. A busy enjoyment of merrymaking.

  Llacheu nudged his younger brother’s arm, nodded at the high table, said, his mouth full, spluttering sauce, “See the harper seated next to Da? Mam said how he is the best in all the world.”

  Gwydre licked sticky fingers, said with fierce loyalty, “Our mam sings pretty.”

  Scathing, Llacheu retorted, “Of course she does, but you need a real harper for the Warrior’s Hall.”

  Gwydre shrugged good-natured and wiped his fingers round the bowl to scrape the last residue. “Happen so, but Mam still sings pretty.” He looked hopefully towards the nearest over-crowded table, his gaze roaming greedily over the many dishes. The pasties looked exceptionally good.

  A woman servant bustled past, her cheeks puffing red from the heat of so many packed into one room, and all the to-ing and fro-ing.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed the boys hunkered in their corner and stopped, retracing her steps to stand before them. They stared anxiously up at her glowering expression, Llacheu risking an impudent grin.

  “What be you two doing ‘ere?” she asked sharply, her face furrowing into creases of suspicion. “Your mam know you be ‘ere?”

  Llacheu nodded furiously, figuring a nod was not so damning as a verbal lie.

  The woman’s frown cracked deeper. Gwydre’s mop of chestnut hair flopped over his hazel eyes, he brushed it back, leaving a trace of kernel sauce across his forehead. Eagerly he said, “This is a special feast for our da, we are leaving the Caer on the morrow.” His lips pouted as he glanced down at the empty bowl resting in his lap. “We’re never allowed to join in the fun.” Again he looked up, an engaging smile swamping his chubby, very dirty, face. Gwydre was an endearing boy: he had the knack of smiling so that whoever scolded found it difficult to retain their ill temper. It worked especially well on his mother, but was not so effective on Enid. Innocently he asked, “I am in my seventh year now though, and my brother’s two years older, so why is that, do you think?”

  The woman had five boys, grown now and gone
to homesteadings of their own. She knew well the ways and pleasures of youngsters – and aside, did she really have the time to chase these two imps from the place? The next course was already being shouted for and those empty tankards would go clean through the table boards if they were thumped any the harder. She fought a desire to laugh at Gwydre, kept her face stern. “Just you stay there then. Don’t you dare let me catch you getting under our feet!” The boys nodded vigorously. “You may as well have this then,” she added, placing the last meat pasty from her tray onto Gwydre’s dish. “Happen I’ll bring you something else later – no promises mind.” And she was gone, chiding the men at the nearest table for being so impatient.

  Arthur was in high spirits, almost content. His return a few weeks past had heralded a sudden change in what had otherwise been a mild winter. Snow had blasted down from the north-east, whirling in a blizzard that had lasted for two days, leaving the land from coast to distant hills buried under a white mantle that came up to a man’s waist. With a change of wind the weather had improved, but a cold frost had locked the snow-melt into sheets of ice that had only begun to thaw these last few days with the return of a welcome, if somewhat erratic, sunshine. And now, too, Arthur intended to leave, much to Gwenhwyfar’s relief. Caer Luel had outlasted its welcome.

  “Now that Ambrosius seems to be reaching sensible conclusions,” Arthur said, helping himself to slices of roast swan, “I can take time to sort our family life.” He piled meat onto Gwenhwyfar’s platter. “We ought to search for a Caer of our own.” He stuffed meat into his mouth, chewed a moment, swallowed, adding, “Somewhere distant enough from my uncle so as not to ride in each other’s saddle, but near enough to remind him of my presence.” About to say more he stopped as a shouted curse, carrying clear above the noise of talk and laughter, sent a flutter of unease scuttling the length of the Hall. Two men were leaping to their feet, fists bunched, voices raised.