“Aye,” Ider prompted, “my Lady Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon, and their son.” To emphasise his point he touched the bronze dragon badge on his shoulder. He leant a little further forward, spoke directly into the man’s face. “I am Artoriani. My Lord Pendragon takes unkindly to rat-poison being served to his Lady or his men.” The pleasant smile he gave as he carefully handed the ladle back to its owner portrayed a meaning far removed from friendship.
Within moments, clean bowls appeared and a flagon of fine wine was opened. The tavern-owner bustled from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a grubby apron tied around his middle, personally served his eminent customers, thoughts flickering faster than a racing storm wind. As served to Queen Gwenhwyfar! I can raise my prices, advertise around the town; get a better standard of clientele coming in. Already, in his mind, his takings box was bursting with gold, his pockets bulging with riches. Bossily he shuffled men away from Gwenhwyfar’s corner, proclaiming the Lady needed privacy and not crowding. Good-natured, knowing the man’s gruff, grasping ways, his regular customers complied. Miltiades was always after the making of more money.
Three men standing propped on their elbows at the bar quietly finished their ale and pushed their way out through the tavern onto the street. This was a side street, bustling with people, bristling with shops and traders. Two doors along was the laundry, wafting its repugnant mixture of smells through the open doors. The tallest of the three stopped to use the almost full urine pot outside – a slave, about to empty it, politely thanked him, waited for him to finish. Fulling was not a pleasant job, but a slave could not complain, at least this boy had the easier task of emptying the public piss pot, the other boy had to take the cloth from the vat after it had lain stiffening in the collected urine. His hands were blistered and sore and he was shunned even by the laundry cat because of the stench that clung to his clothing, skin and hair.
The three men strolled on, heading for where they had left their horses. Three men dressed in hunting gear; ordinary men, save one had a glint of excited mischief, wore the torque of a chieftain’s son around his short, bull-muscled neck and a golden frog, the emblem of his father, Amlawdd, on his shoulder.
IV
Though it was warmer than the last few weeks, the sun had not managed to shoulder through the banks of cloud and by late afternoon a fine drizzle was falling. Riding home, Llacheu paid no mind to the weather, for rain was a part of life, as unavoidable as night. Though he had been talking briskly when first they left Lindinis, he had fallen silent. Death was a part of life, a part he saw often. His father’s men, their wives and their children could be mortally wounded or fall prey to sickness and disease, but to lose a brother, a brother whom you had played with, curled asleep with, fought, laughed or cried with, had been, for all its part of the everyday way of things, hard to bear.
Amr he had missed, but Amr had been young, and beyond his chubby smile and babe’s needs, Llacheu had not known him. Gwydre, though, had been a constant companion. Not always an amicable one, for brothers often did not agree, but their squabbling had been no more than pups in the same litter scrapping over a choice bone. As likely, when the growling ceased, they would snuggle together, content, before the hearth fire.
He awoke some nights sweating and screaming, the horror of the hunt returning into his dreams. Never would that terrible scene of Gwydre’s killing fully leave his memory, but for a boy with so much life to embrace, grief faded quickly. Beyond the occasional thorn-prick reminder, Gwydre’s voice, his face, were becoming echoes as faint as a half-remembered dream. Only, sometimes, Llacheu missed his brother painfully.
His head nodded forward, tired from the day’s excitement; they would all sleep sound this night; for it had been a long, busy day. They were all tired, some of the men half dozing as they rode, hunched beneath their cloaks against the rain, hands easy on the reins, bodies swaying with the steady rhythm of their horses’ pace. The ambush came unexpected.
No more than a handful of men, well armed, attacked with hunting bows and spears where the road narrowed through the encroaching shrub. Four of the escort lay dead before they could draw sword, among them the Decurion and Caradog. The Artoriani spurred their horses forward, attempting to reach and close in around their Lady and Llacheu, who, coming fully awake, was gallantly drawing his own dagger and riding close to his mother in order to protect her. Ider, torn between the decision to aid Gwenhwyfar or the boy, made a rapid choice for the boy. Leaping from his own horse, he jumped towards the lad scooped him in his arm and tumbled to the grass, covering him with his own shield as they fell. Gwenhwyfar, seeing Llacheu with Ider, drew her own sword, trying to think calmly, to plan, all the while her mind was screaming for the boy’s safety. An arrow thrummed, pierced her mare’s neck, bright blood gaping down the chestnut hide from the severed jugular. The horse crumpled, falling head first into a tangle of legs, pitching her rider off. Gwenhwyfar hit the ground hard, her head catching on a rock half-hidden beneath last autumn’s fall. Shapes moved around her. Voices, shouting and grunting as the attackers came up out from the bushes to fight hand to hand. Llacheu was pushed against her; he scrabbled close, arms going around her, his dagger tight in his hand, ready to stab at anyone who came too near.
The clash of sword on shield, swearing, the smell of fresh blood. Ider stood over Gwenhwyfar and the boy, his boots planted to either side, fighting for his own life and theirs. But mostly, theirs.
When not on campaign, Arthur’s men drilled daily: weapons training, marching, wrestling, running. Every day, in every weather. Drill, drill and drill again. To fight effectively a man must be fit and ready for action. They grumbled of course, complained and cursed at the officers for being fatherless sons of whorehouse bitches, their profanities increasing when compelled to cover miles on route marches carrying full pack. But if man or beast could not keep up then the Artoriani was no longer the place for them. Fit men, fit horses; disciplined, drilled professionals.
A man leapt at Ider, screaming some wordless battle cry, ran into the sweeping stroke of Ider’s sword. Gwenhwyfar, her senses returning, her head spinning, pulled Llacheu, protesting, beneath her. A weight fell across her legs, something warm and wet spattered her skin. She looked up, wished she hadn’t, buried her head again.
The Artoriani losses were heavy, but the remainder were skilled enough to win through, and ensure that not one of their attackers got away. Not even the young man with the golden torque who had come from the tavern in Lindinis.
Ider took three great lungfuls of air, regarded the six men standing as he was, out of breath and blood-splotched. Three horses lay dead. At a quick glance, two others would need to be destroyed. Probably more. He sheathed his sword, kicked the dead man from his Lady’s legs and lifted her with ease as if she were a child. Llacheu sprang immediately to his feet, teeth bared, dagger scything.
“Whoa, little cub,” Ider chided, putting a restraining hand on the lad’s head. “The fighting is done, let us tend your mam.” Carrying her a few paces, he set Gwenhwyfar down under the spread new-leaf boughs of a tree where the grass was green and untrampled.
With gentle hands he inspected the bloodied swelling to her forehead. “‘Tis not deep,” he said, removing his neck cloth, “but you’ll have a bruise the size of a goose egg. I’ll damp this with water, it will ease the hurting, my Lady.”
Gwenhwyfar stayed him from rising, her hand going to his arm. She was pale, felt nauseous and was trembling, but still she said, “I am alright. See to those in more need than I.” She indicated the others. Gravely Ider nodded, and handed the cloth to Llacheu, who ran to a stream trickling a few yards off to wet it. Ider said nothing as he quietly went to help the injured of his Turma. His friends.
Forcing herself to stand, Gwenhwyfar let the world swim by a few times. She was of no use sitting idle by this tree while men needed help. She swayed, fought down a wave of sickness. Deep, even breaths to steady the dizzying swirl. Concentrate. One foot before the other
. Why did the ground heave so? Llacheu came back, his face grey, concerned, silently handed her the wet cloth. She smiled and thanked him, assured him she was not seriously injured, just a bit dizzy.
Ider was kneeling beside Damos, whose cuirass was soaked, stained with a dark redness that was almost black. Gwenhwyfar knelt opposite him, shook her head at Ider’s grief-stricken questioning face. There was no hope. The arrow had pierced deep into his lung, the breath coming in a spittle of rattling gasps.
Damos clung to Ider’s hand, felt Gwenhwyfar’s cool fingers touch his hot forehead. They had been companions from the start, these two young men, good companions, good friends. He croaked, through a hurting breath, “We had good hunting, my friend, you and I together.”
Ider said nothing. His throat choked, words stuck.
“I would give half my pay for a cool drink of water,” Damos added with a cough. A little cough, with a soft breathing out of air.
“I’ll fetch some!” Ider was up, eager to be doing something of use, but Gwenhwyfar shook her head again. “He has no need of it, Ider. There will be cool water in plenty where he has gone.” She folded Damos’s hands across his chest. He looked no more than he was sleeping, save for the black blood. Sinking to the stained grass, Ider covered his face with his hands and wept like a disconsolate child.
Gwenhwyfar left him with his grief, went to tend another, Llacheu, silent, trotted at her heel, fetching water when she asked, helping to tear bandaging, rolling, holding, helping where he could.
And all the while Gwenhwyfar was thinking: Will it never end, this horror of death? What has happened to the sunshine and the laughter? Why is there nothing but rain and tears?
With the Decurion dead the men left were disoriented, the suddenness of an attack in country that was not hostile leaving them stunned. They needed to be up and doing, not sitting dwelling on it, so Gwenhwyfar set them to work, tending the wounded, dispatching the horses. Searching the bodies of their attackers. “We must know who they were, where they come from. My Lord would wish to know.” She added with a snarl of ferociousness that few had heard before, “As do I.”
The men nodded, faces set. As did they.
Stone-faced, Ider stood beside Gwenhwyfar, allowing her to finish bandaging a wound in a man’s thigh. She sat back on her heels, looking up at him, waited for him to speak. “We have identified one of the bastards,” he said curtly. He turned on his heel, strode to where a body lay slightly apart from the others.
Before following, Gwenhwyfar smiled at the injured man. “That will be sore for a while, but will mend.” She struggled wearily to her feet. The rain was still drizzling and light would be fading soon. Her legs felt as heavy as her throbbing head. She went to join Ider, but at sight of the body turned away, fell forward onto her hands and knees and retched into the grass. She knew the whoreson, she knew him! The nephew of a name from the past. A name with a face she still saw, occasionally, when the mares of the night brought dreams of despair and fear. The young man’s features were the same, the same colouring, the same snarling, greasy expression. For a second time she vomited. Ider knelt beside her, rubbing her back, easing the discomfort, unsure what else to do.
She sat up, managed a weak smile. Simply, she said, “Did any get away?”
“None.”
Her eyes were seeing beyond Ider, seeing again a time and remembered faces at Vortigern’s court. “He was at Londinium, this man’s uncle.” She took several breaths to calm herself.
“Who is he?” Ider asked, meaning the dead man.
For a long while she did not answer. Then on a drawn breath, “He is Rhica, the son of Amlawdd.” Gwenhwyfar swallowed, went on to explain with dry lips and throat, “Amlawdd had a brother, an older brother, Gorlois by name. Gorlois had a young wife, but she left her brutal husband for another, her lover. To keep her, the lover was forced to kill Gorlois, and from that sprang a war that ended with Uthr – the lover – and his woman – Ygrainne – fleeing to exile.” She lifted her hand, let it fall in a hopeless gesture. “And so began the hatred between the Pendragon and the kindred of Gorlois: his brothers, Amlawdd and,” she had to steady her breath again before saying, “Melwas.”
“My Lady?” Ider took her hand, was alarmed to feel it so cold. “Are you unwell? You have turned so pale.” The last name meant nothing to him.
She managed a smile, attempted to reassure him and Llacheu who had trotted over. She knelt, held her son close, said over his head to Ider, “No matter how far buried you think it is, the past will always rise again to the surface.” She began to get to her feet, Ider helped her up. She nodded a curt order at the waiting men, “Bring this body. My husband will wish to see it.”
“And these others, Lady?”
Venom was in her voice as she answered, “Leave them. Carrion eat vermin.” The men exchanged glances. One ventured, tentatively, “Christian people require a Christian burial, my Lady.”
Gwenhwyfar laughed caustically. “I doubt the men of Amlawdd are bothered by the niceties of Christianity. His brother, Melwas, when he ran sword in sheath with the Saex, certainly was not.” Added, “They would not have bothered to bury us.” She watched as two men lifted Rhica and carried him to one of the waiting mounts.
To no one in particular Gwenhwyfar said, “Gorlois was slain by Uthr and Melwas by myself. Now there is only Amlawdd. Who shall bring his death and end the thing?” It had been a rhetorical question, she was not even aware she had spoken aloud, but Ider answered with iron coldness.
“If it was he who ordered this killing, then it shall be me, Lady Gwenhwyfar. I swear I shall avenge this bloody day.”
Gwenhwyfar regarded Ider through slit eyes, much as her husband would have done. Said with a soft sigh, “Let it rest. This thing has circled warily beyond the shadows of the fire for many and many a year. For now, we must see to our own, get them returned to Caer Cadan.”
V
Morgaine took pride in her hair, always kept it combed and clean. There was little more to do here among the solitude of these hovels that had once housed the community of the Ladies at the base of the Tor. She was alone now, for the last of the other women had died, toothless, in old age. Morgaine was the only one left. The young women did not come to seek service to the Goddess any more – they went to the far side of the Tor now, down the hill a way to the holy house of the Christian sisters who dressed in drab black, and cut their hair short, hiding what remained under a veil.
Morgaine was there because she had nowhere else to go, no one to go with. She had been born here. Her mother, within a few moments of clearing the birthing-blood from the tiny body and the mucus from the nose and mouth had given the child into the service of the Goddess. The women – there had been several Ladies then – had welcomed the offering, twittering and fussing around her mother, taking her as one with themselves. But Morgause had always been like that, willing to sacrifice anything for her own gain. It had been no hardship to give her newborn daughter to the jangling, colourfully garbed women, for Morgause had not wanted the babe. Morgaine knew that. Knew it from the first days of fear and understanding. From the day when, as a child of no more than five years, she found Morgause suddenly to be gone without explanation or word of farewell. Gone, as if she had never existed, save for the bruising on the child’s legs, the scalds to her hands and the many other, inward, unseen scars.
That had been a good, most glorious day when Morgaine discovered her mother was gone. It had been the day when there had been a great excitement down among the complex of Christian buildings, for a man had come and found his lost woman. Morgaine would have been punished had her mother discovered she had wandered down into the holy community; Morgause was always punishing her. For being lazy or stupid or clumsy, all excuses for the real reason, for being born a girl-child. But Morgaine had often pattered secretly down the lane to watch the gentle, kind, sisters, or to spy on the crowds gathering to worship in the Christian church. That day, she had tiptoed closer than ever befo
re because there seemed such an excitement in the air. The man had tossed her a coin after his marriage service to his beloved lady. She had dropped the thing and cried and the man had stooped, picked it up, put it in her hand, smiling. No one had ever smiled at Morgaine before; or told her not to cry. For that, she had loved him, and loved him still. No matter that he was now the Pendragon and called King.
That was ten years past. Morgaine was alone now, but at least the old Ladies had taught her well. She had learnt eagerly, once Morgause had gone. She knew how to heal and to mix potions, she could chant the ritual verses of the Goddess; knew how to interpret the clouds and the direction of the wind, name the stars and the cycle of the moon and planets. Could understand the rustlings of nature, and could write in the Latin hand and the old language of the runes. Could read the written words in her mind without the need to move her lips. She knew great magic.
And so she lived alone among the ruins of what had once been a shrine to an increasingly impotent goddess, with only the birds and beasts for companions, her scrolls and wax tablets for comfort, knowing nothing of what lay beyond, a mile distant from Yns Witrin. She could see, from the great, imposing height of the Tor across that spread land of the Summer Realm, could see another world beneath the vast stretch of sky where men and women loved and laughed; where children were born and grew. She could see across to the hills and the distant glimmer of sun-shimmered sea, all the while wanting to go, wanting to leave, knowing she would never summon the courage to disobey the command of her mother.
Morgaine looked up, disturbed by the frantic rush of beating wings. Many of the winter birds were still here, the lingering cold making them reluctant to leave for their nesting sites. She put down her comb, stood, squinting into the grey sky. No sign of a hawk, what had disturbed them from their feeding out on the lush water-meadows? Then the geese went up, honking and calling, their clamour of wings beating shrill warning of an intruder. Someone was approaching her lake. The birds and the grazing geese always warned her. Many believed she possessed the Sight, but Morgaine knew it was simply the alarm of the birds. She hoped it would only be a peasant woman coming for a salve, or a young maid for a love potion. More likely it was a man who wanted her body. They often came to try for that. Aye, even the Christian men.
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