Amlawdd was no friend of the Pendragon. A family feud, begun with Arthur’s father taking the wife of Amlawdd’s eldest brother as his own, had expanded through hatred and murder. The enmity separated the two as effectively as the Roman-built Wall had once separated north from south. Delight abounded at Amlawdd’s marsh-bound hill-fortress when, as spring flourished into full blossom, he received personal written word from his boyhood companion confirming the gossip. So Hueil was to go against the King? Hah! Amlawdd would be behind him in that! It was too early yet to call a war-hosting, but never was it too early to start forging swords, crafting shields and fashioning war spears!
June 464
LXI
It was time Arthur had a permanent base – well past time. He needed a home for his wife and his sons, a stronghold to lodge and train his cavalry, and pastures to breed and graze his horses. He needed, above all, to establish a secure and permanent base from which to rule. Until now, everything was scattered, transitory. Marching camps, temporary grazing, a small herd of mares here, youngstock there. He needed somewhere of his own. The Summer Land and Dumnonia were littered with abandoned old hill-forts that had seen their use before Rome came with her tidy ideas of building towns and legionary fortresses. Some of these he knew well, others he vaguely remembered from those days of serving as a raw youth in Vortigern’s army. The place he needed would be well within his own undisputedly held land; from where any activities along the Saex borders could be dealt with quickly and efficiently. Not too far from where he could keep close watch on Ambrosius and Amlawdd – especially Amlawdd – and from where he could ride north, should, or rather when, the need to face Hueil came.
For some weeks during the blazing heat of this early June, he had felt a prickly sensation of unease regarding this peaceful indifference that had settled on Britain like a quietly fallen mantle of contented sleep. It was welcome peace, most welcome, but then, was there often not a dropping of the wind or a ceasing of rain before the real storm thundered its anger? Agreed borders were too quiet; sea lanes almost empty save for trading ships. The economy was picking up. The harvests had been good. Ambrosius, and even Winifred, were being congenial. Hengest was getting old, his son, Aesc would soon be ruling in the Cantii land, so it was rumoured. Would the treaties hold? And for how long would the young men of the English – all the English, not merely the Cantii – be content with growing their crops, grazing their cattle and raising their sons to be farmers, not warriors? How long before another such as Icel decided to rattle the peace into a bloody wave of excitement? There had been no movement from Hueil, no raiding, no killing. But could it, would it, all last?
Arthur doubted it, but it was best to cut the hay while the sun shone – and while the blue-skied warmth of June smiled on the world he would take time to establish his own stronghold. A place fit for a king.
Easing the chinstrap of his helmet with one finger, Arthur glanced behind at Gwenhwyfar who rode with the boys. He pointed ahead, answering her weary expression of appeal. “If my memory serves me correct we will see the place I’m thinking of just beyond this rise.” He had to assume this was a temporary hold on war. Had to make ready for the next upsurge of wanting and greed. He was the Pendragon; supreme king.
And he intended to stay that way.
Gwenhwyfar was laughing, and again Arthur turned, his frown creasing his face. Llacheu and Gwydre had joined her delighted laughter as young Ider said something that increased their amusement. Arthur could not catch the words. Irritably he faced forward, stared hotly between his mare’s ears. Ider was a boy, for all his size and strength. He showed promise, but then, so had Hueil. Had placing the lad among the men of Gwenhwyfar’s personal bodyguard been a wise decision? He took too much on himself, assumed too great a liberty between that fine line of devotion to his Lady for her protection and that other kind of devotion. Arthur clenched his teeth. Stupid, unjustified thoughts! But thoughts, for all their unwarranted beginnings, that would not leave him.
Ah, Morgause had known full well what she was doing when she had used her lover to plant seeds of doubt against Gwenhwyfar in Arthur’s mind. Except it was no longer Bedwyr who posed a threat to Gwenhwyfar’s love and loyalty, but a gangling, over-sized youth who grinned and eyed her inanely, like a lovesick moon-child. Ider followed at her heel like a motherless pup, was always there.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Ider riding close at Gwenhwyfar’s side. Na, he was no longer a greenstick boy, he had matured since he had come all those months past from Eboracum; had become a man with the rutting instinct of all young men out for first blood. And Gwenhwyfar was a beautiful woman. She had borne children yet her figure was as slender as it had been in her youth, her hair still shone with that alluring glow of sunlight shimmering on beaten copper, and her green eyes were as alive as stars burning on a frosted winter’s night. Gwenhwyfar might well, as she professed, only be fond of the boy, but it was not fondness that Ider returned. Arthur’s teeth sank into his lower lip. He recognised that appreciative gaze all too well. Gods, had he himself not looked at enough women with that same lusting eye? Happen it was time he moved Ider to some other post.
Ahead, Cei had dropped out from the fore guard and wheeled his mount to come alongside Arthur. The Pendragon sighed. Problems. One after another whirling like scavenging ravens. Cei was daily becoming more reticent, more jealous of the favours given to other men. Some imagined bitterness was eating him as mould eats into the flesh of fruit. Arthur would have to sort it before it festered into something too cancerous to be amputated.
“Is that it?” Cei was pointing to a hill a few miles ahead.
Squinting into the brightness, Arthur thrust aside his grumbling muddle of brooding thoughts. He nodded. “Aye, it is.” His black mood departed as suddenly as it had come. Arthur halted his mare, waited for Gwenhwyfar to draw rein next to him. Leaning from the saddle, he caught her hand, pointed eagerly towards the shape of that hill rising above the heat-haze and clusters of scrubby trees and bushes. “Our home, Cymraes. Caer Cadan.”
LXII
Gwenhwyfar stood on the highest point of the hill, knuckles resting lightly on her hips, eyes narrowed to see better across the distance.
At this height there was a lively wind, which lifted her braids and toyed with the wisps of loose hair that never could be tamed into conforming. Below, in a patchwork of colour, the Summer Land stretched rich and fertile, spreading like some elaborately embroidered tapestry. This, literally, was summer land. Come winter the rivers and streams rose and covered the flat miles of marshland that never drained completely dry, even when elsewhere was thirsting under drought. Winter was a time of boats and fishing, of lakes and water-meadows idling around the few, scattered islands of high ground.
With the onset of evening, the day’s heat-haze had eased and the view from up here, beneath a mackerel and mare’s-tail sky, was beautiful. The blue was the colour of a heron’s egg, sweeping down to touch the grey-misted smudge of hills that strode along the distant horizons. And there, rising from the greens and yellows and browns, alone, and shouting its existence, the unmistakable shape of Yns Witrin.
Gwenhwyfar heard a footfall in the grass. She smiled and laid her head back into his shoulder as Arthur came up behind, encircled her waist with his arms.
“When I fled Less Britain,” she said, “after you and I had spent those months there together as lovers, I came to be at Yns Witrin. Terrible things had happened to me, things I would rather not remember. I was alone and lost and frightened. I was carrying your child, our first-born son. I walked often on the Tor, yet never once was I aware of this place.”
“I am told it blends with these hills behind.” Arthur said, indicating to the range of hills running to the south-east. “Caer Cadan is difficult to see unless you know where to look for it.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, Gwenhwyfar enclosed his embrace. The sky, where the sun was sinking beyond the horizon, was beginning to flush with red and gold;
fingers of pink and purple reaching to caress the darkening blueness, touching the underside of the evening clouds.
“You never forget,” she said, letting her weight prop against him. “You think you have. You think the bad memories of darkness and fear have been shut safe in a box, shut away for ever, but it comes back every so often, when you least expect it. Something rattles the lid and you find yourself face to face with the things you hoped you had forgotten.”
Arthur pressed his cheek against her hair, breathed in her womanly scent. She wore no perfume, but she rinsed her hair with herbal infusions, and her clothes were laid in oak chests among layers of dried lavender and rosemary. She smelt of flowers and meadows.
Closing her eyes, Gwenhwyfar too breathed in deeply, smelt horse and leather, masculine aromas mingling with the scent of the grass and the summer breeze. The air was cool, clear, with a permeating atmosphere of promise.
“This is a good place, Arthur.” She meant it. “The Summer Land carries the blessing of the old gods and the peace of the new Christ.” She opened her eyes, turned her head to smile at him. “It is a fitting site for the Pendragon to build his Caer.”
He kissed her neck, nuzzling her warmth and love. “I came here during those first few months of serving Vortigern – I cannot recall why my patrol was in this area now. Huh,” he laughed to himself, “I decided, even then, that one day I’d have the Summer Land back as my own and make my place here.” He turned her around to face inwards over the grass enclosure, indicated a gap in the weather-worn remains of the pre-Roman defensive ridge topping the natural hill. “We’ll build a main gateway there, and another over there.” He swung her to where he was pointing. “With banks and ditches for defence and a palisade along the top. On the land down there, we will grow grain to bake bread and brew ale. We can graze our horses and watch the foals grow fine and strong.”
Gwenhwyfar laughed at his enthusiasm. “And build a suitable King’s Hall I trust! No more flapping tents.”
“My dearest love, we will have a Hall to surpass any that has ever been built!” Arthur announced with a tossed laugh. He sprang away, his arms whirling as he strode across the daisy-littered grass. “Here,” he said coming to a halt and gesturing to right and left. “We will build it here, so that on evenings such as this we can stand together by the open door and look with pride and pleasure over our kingdom.”
Catching his eagerness, Gwenhwyfar went to him, threaded her arm through his. “Oh aye? Build where the bite of the wind will whistle through the walls, rattle the window shutters and blow smoke back down the smoke-holes?”
Arthur wrinkled his nose at her jesting, swiping playfully at her. “Those passing along the road to Yns Witrin will look up and see my fortress and our Hall sitting proud beyond formidable ramparts. They shall see and say, “That is where our King sits in justice and protection.”
Gwenhwyfar’s happy laughter was rising. “Unless you also build a chapel,” she mocked, “they will be raising their fists and saying “that is where a heathen cur-son sits in tyranny over our Christian ways,” and they will grunt and look at your magnificent Hall and berate you for using their taxes for such improper use.”
“They would not dare!” Arthur rolled his eyes innocently skyward, contemplated a sarcastic answer, then conceded, “Aye, they would. All right, we will have a chapel too. It can go over there.” He pointed vaguely to a far corner, added wickedly, “Near the latrine.”
Gwenhwyfar slapped him playfully, he grabbed her around the waist and began to tickle her, his fingers biting between her ribs. She fought him off and ran giggling down the slope, Arthur in pursuit. He caught her, though not as quickly as he’d expected – she always had been fleet on her feet. They fell together, laughing wildly, rolling down the slope. Stopped against somebody’s legs.
Clutching Gwenhwyfar to him, Arthur looked up to Cei’s sullen countenance.
“I came to inform you,” his humourless tone matched the expression, “that the men are assembled before the priest, awaiting your presence before blessings can be offered on the camp.”
“Oh.” Arthur coughed and released Gwenhwyfar who snorted, smothering further laughter. He pushed himself to his feet, brushed ineffectually at grass stains on his tunic, offered lamely, “We were discussing the layout of buildings.”
“So I see.”
What was it with Cei? Standing there like some pompous school tutor, nostrils flaring, breath quickening. Was a husband not allowed to romp with his own wife? Arthur offered his hand to Gwenhwyfar, pulled her to her feet, and turning deliberately from Cei walked with her across the expanse of grass to where the men had pitched the tents. It had become habit for Cethrwm, their priest, to say some holy words before the first cooking fires were lit and the men took their ease. A habit Arthur could well do without, but most of his men followed this Christ God; he could not deny them their belief because it was not his own. No commander had that right.
Cei had dropped behind a pace. Older only by two summers he looked as though the gap was nearer ten. His hair had receded and his facial skin was wrinkled, hanging in loose jowls around chin and throat. An old injury to his back bothered him, although he hid the pain well. It occurred to Arthur, unexpectedly, that he ought to give Cei more praise where it was due for too often did he bark and growl at his cousin; occurred to him also, that never once had he openly said thank you. Impulsively he turned, held out his hand, intending to invite the man to walk in company beside him, watched in horror as Cei’s step faltered and, hand clasping at his chest, stumbled to his knees.
Arthur rushed to his side, Gwenhwyfar, at his shout of alarm running with him. “Fetch a medic!” Arthur cried, urgently cradling Cei into his arms, loosening the man’s tunic and belt. “Hurry, Cymraes!”
Cei was sweating, his skin clammy, a blue tinge to his lips, but the breathing was easier. Surely, his breathing was easier?
“God’s love, Cei,” Arthur panted, “don’t die. I need you too much for you to die.” Tears slipped down the Pendragon’s cheeks as his cousin and foster-brother clasped his hand, held tight as though he were a man drowning, with only a single rope to bring him safe ashore. He managed a wheezing smile, croaked through choking breath, “Na lad, you’ll not be getting rid of my sour face so easily.”
The first thing to be constructed in Arthur’s new stronghold was a grave for Cei.
January 465
LXIII
The horses’ breath billowed from their nostrils in great clouds of dragon smoke, rising with the steam from their thick winter coats. The riders too, exhaled white-misted breath whenever they spoke or laughed. Several rubbed arms with stiff hands or stamped numbed feet on the frozen ground as their sweating bodies cooled. It had been a fast, energetic chase, a hard gallop over several miles. What in Christ’s good name was taking the dogs so long? They had run the boar to ground in this thicket, had sent the dogs in to flush him out. Well-trained dogs that would keep their distance.
Llacheu grinned at his brother, his bright-red cheeks glowing, hair tousled and eyes still watering from the whip of the wind. Despite the biting cold it was a good hunt, one of the best – aye well, the two boys had to take the adults’ word for that, neither had hunted boar before. And by all that was dear, this boar was some wonderful initiation!
He was reputed to be a monster of a beast, striking terror into the hearts of the scattered farms and steadings around the new stronghold of Caer Cadan. Many a good hunter had set out to finish the brute, too many had failed to return.
The great boar, a fearsome old man of the woods, had grunted in annoyance at the first distant baying of the dogs as they discovered his scent beneath an aged oak, where some half-hour before he had been contentedly rooting for his breakfast. With speed amazing for his huge size, he trotted further from the disagreeable sounds. Twisting and turning his way through the patches of woodland, he passed into open country where peasants scratched a living, and headed for the marshland over towards Yns Wit
rin, into the scattered thickets of alder and willow. The boar stopped once to scratch his snout in a muddied hollow, rooting for tit-bits; the dogs did not unduly bother him. They were a nuisance, but he had dealt with dogs before. And men.
Arthur hefted his spear, cast a glance at his sons who had inched forward. “Stay back,” he ordered. “When the dogs send him out he’ll be madder than a pain-racked bull.” Then he grinned at them. “Your mam was quite right to protest at your coming. Boars are dangerous beasts, not to be trusted.” He winked. “But a man has to learn how to hunt.”
“A man needs to learn many things before he can call himself a man.”
Arthur spun around, startled, as did the men with him. A young woman stood beneath the willows. Dressed in green and brown she blended with the winter-clad trees, seemed almost a part of them. Several men caught their breath, for she had not been there a moment earlier. “You come to hunt the great boar?” she asked, stepping forward from the shadows, her earth-brown cloak sweeping back, revealing a lithe, slender figure. She was not beautiful, this young woman with dark hair and even darker eyes, but there was something about her that arrested a man’s attention, something about the way she half smiled.
“The King hunts the king,” she said, her eyes shining. Mocking? “But which king will win?”
Arthur was no raw, superstitious youth, he did not believe in demons lurking among the shadows or an old hag’s love potions, but this creature startled him, made his heart bump uneasy, the hairs rise on his neck. What he did not see with his own eyes he did not believe, yet, here was a woman who had come from nowhere. He managed to stammer a greeting, adding with more confidence, “You know who I am, Lady, but I know you not. What is your name?”
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