Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur squatted beside her, fed kindling to the low fire, the flames licking gratefully at the replenishment. “I could not come earlier. Not with my wife in my bed.”

  Brigid said nothing; thought, Why bring her?

  As if hearing, Arthur answered, “It is difficult to say no to Gwenhwyfar.” He laughed softly, his hand reaching out for a hank of black hair. “As it is difficult to say no to you.”

  Brigid laid her hand over his, brought it slowly down inside the half-open lacing of her tunic, placed it over her round breast. But he made no response. Nor did he return the kiss she gave him. He did not want her this night. Shrugging, Brigid moved away from him, fed more wood to the fire.

  “Do you know where Rhica is?” His question was not totally unexpected.

  “Hunting.”

  “Wolves or dragons?”

  Brigid flicked a glance at him. They had lain together, three, four times in her little hut down by the causeway where the men not of the stronghold came to her. And each time she had answered his questions, told of all she knew concerning Amlawdd and his poxed allies and kindred. Arthur paid her well for her spying. They were taking a chance meeting here in her dwelling place within the stronghold. But then, she was a whore, they could always claim she was about her business.

  The Pendragon chuckled at her hesitation. He leant across the gap between them, and kissed her in a different way from how he kissed Gwenhwyfar. Brigid was for using, his Cymraes for loving. He fumbled in his waist pouch, brought out a gold ring and a brooch, tossed them into her lap. “I always pay, my beauty, for whatever you give me.” The jewels disappeared quickly into her fingers, away into her own pouch. “A stranger has come here, to Amlawdd’s Hall.”

  “Where is he?” Arthur’s tone was urgent.

  “He is not here.”

  Arthur grabbed hold of her hair, held it in a tight grasp. “You are here at my command, Brigid. I pay you well. I expect satisfaction.”

  Her posture was lewdly provocative. Deliberately misunderstanding she answered, “That I can give, were you to cease asking questions and strip yourself of tunic and bracae.”

  Shrewdly, Arthur regarded her through slit eyes. She was not idly boasting, for Brigid was skilled in her crafts of loving – and listening. He did not need her, but then, why rely on rations when a banquet was offered?

  Sweating, breathing hard, Arthur rolled from her and gathered his cloak against his damp body. Waited. She would tell him now, all he needed to know.

  She lay beside him, her naked body glistening in the flickering firelight. “Amlawdd does not love so well as you.”

  “Amlawdd, I would wager, does little as well as I.”

  She sat up, drew her knees to her stomach. “He came to me earlier, when first the Hall settled for the night. He does not pay so high as you either.”

  “And of what did he talk?”

  Brigid began braiding her loose black hair, her arms raised, firming her breasts, making them seem rounder, fuller. “Of Rhica not yet returning. He is afraid of his son you know. Rhica also wants a kingship. Amlawdd suspects him to be allied to you.” She laughed suddenly, throwing back her head in amusement, her white teeth gleaming in the light from the sparking fire. “He once told me someone ensures the Pendragon knows all that goes on here. He thinks it is Rhica who informs, and in return you will secure him this stronghold.” She laughed louder, her hand reaching out to trace one of the many scars scything across Arthur’s skin. “Rhica lies with me occasionally, but keeps his mind dark. Apart from boasting of the women he takes, he says little. He desperately seeks power for himself. He has a bellyful of hatred.” Her finger stroked higher, Arthur ignored her. “Is Amlawdd right? Does Rhica ally with you?”

  Arthur shook his head. “No. Tell me more of Amlawdd.”

  She shrugged. “He is angered at your unexpected visit. He told of what, when he makes a move against you, he will do to you.” She paused, dare she add more? “Of what he would do with Gwenhwyfar when she becomes his.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. None of this was news. He knew it from other sources, and by his own observations. “He wants my royal torque and my wife.” He snorted contempt. Gwenhwyfar was safe. His fingers rubbed gently along the familiar curve of the gold, dragon-shaped torque at his neck. So was this.

  But when Brigid said the next, he sat alert, intent. This was news! “When Hueil of the North rides against you, Amlawdd intends to join with him. Hueil is to rule the north, Amlawdd the south. He boasts he will be Wledig, supreme.”

  Arthur sat silent, digesting her words. Hueil. He sucked his lower lip. Must he watch his back sooner than he thought?

  Brigid fed more fuel to the fire, the orange glow shadowing across the curve of her breasts and hips, said, “Rhica is impatient for power, he is raiding farmsteadings and settlements, taking his own land.”

  Arthur answered casually, “Only raiding? Nothing more?”

  She waved her hand, dismissive, her nose wrinkling. “He has only the stomach to steal the cattle and women from peasants. Amlawdd has quarrelled with him often over it, warning him not to overstep the traces. Too much would bring you to this coast.”

  Arthur’s eyes met hers and she saw suddenly why he was there. He nodded, once, a slight, almost imperceptible agreement to her realisation. “Too much has brought me.”

  For a while and a while, Brigid considered the information, a stirring in her stomach that things were about to change. “The young man, Ider?” She slid one of her rings from her finger, toyed with it. “I wondered if he were here on your business, but he made no secret of his identity, the others who whisper your password come as traders. Amlawdd did not much like him.”

  He had been a fine-looking young man, worthy of Brigid’s admiring scrutiny as he had ridden past her open door. A pity Amlawdd had ordered him killed before she had a chance to invite him inside. She wriggled forward, bored with the talk, slid her hands up Arthur’s back. “ It is not wise to send a boy to do a man’s work, my Lord.”

  Arthur’s reply was gruff as he removed her hands, stood and dressed. “Nor should a man use a whore when he has a wife to warm his bed.”

  XIV

  Gwenhwyfar was furious. She stood three paces within the door, fists clenched, eyes shooting gold-flecked arrows of fire, finding it difficult to speak so great was her rage. “You stand there,” she spat, “and calmly tell me we are leaving? Leaving without a damn thing!” Her arms flew into the air, came down and clapped against her body with a simultaneous exhalation of exasperation. “I do not understand you, Arthur Pendragon. All these years I have at least had the comfort of knowing why you act as you do. Bull’s blood, now you take that from me!”

  He stood with his back to the closed door. He had known she would react badly to his announcement, and Gwenhwyfar riled was not an easy woman to face. He spread his arms. “I can do nothing here, Cymraes.” He walked towards her, intending to place sympathetic hands on her shoulders but she stepped away. He sighed, a battlefield was sometimes preferable to Gwenhwyfar in a temper.

  He tried again to explain. “I have come direct from Amlawdd.” A brief grin twitched. “He was not pleased at being roused at first light, but changed his mind when he realised I was bidding him farewell.” The grin broadened. “For some reason, Amlawdd is not too keen on having us here.”

  Gwenhwyfar did not return the laughter. He conceded to her grim expression, fell serious again. “He says the raids on villages are through Rhica’s youthful high spirits. It seems true – were I to punish every chieftain whose son went cattle raiding I would need to hang every man in the country!” Her face remained stern. This was not going well. “What has been stolen is to be returned, I have Amlawdd’s assurance.”

  “And you believe him?” she retorted, plonking herself on the bed, wincing as its hardness rattled through her body. “Are you going soft in the head or something? Rhica tried to kill me and your son, or have you forgotten?”

  Arthur’s pati
ence was beginning to wear thin. He wanted to be gone from this place, not standing here wasting riding time, arguing with his wife. “I have not forgotten, but Amlawdd was not involved, and he will not defy me until Hueil is ready to march south.” Arthur swept his fingers through his ruffled dark hair. “It was Rhica’s doing, Cymraes, the attack on you, not Amlawdd’s. It may even not have been planned. A chance encounter of which Rhica’s swelling greed took advantage.”

  Gwenhwyfar’s answer was derisive, “And that makes it all right, does it!”

  Arthur responded instantly, “It has been kept as no secret that Rhica was hunting down towards Lindinis.” He was fastening his cloak pin, making ready to leave. “It is reasonable to assume Rhica saw you. There is only the one road for you to take – all he had to do was choose his place and wait for you.”

  “And Amlawdd?”

  “Has too much wagered with Hueil.” Arthur turned to the door, with his hand on the latch said, “I’ll fetch the horses up. He will not cross me until he is ready, not even when he learns of Rhica’s death.”

  Gwenhwyfar had not moved. Calmly, distinctly, she stated, “And what will you do, Arthur, when he is ready? When next time he succeeds in killing me? Come talk to him again? Drink his wine, eat his food and lay his whore?”

  Arthur’s hand froze on the depressed latch.

  “Do you think me that much a fool? You were gone too long last night, returned with the smell of wood smoke and woman clinging to you.”

  Arthur swallowed, very slowly he let go of the latch, turned to face her. “She is in my pay, Gwenhwyfar.”

  “Are not they all?”

  She had misunderstood. Arthur stepped forward hurriedly, his head shaking, hands wildly gesturing. “Na, I do not mean like that, Brigid is my informer here. I need her to keep close eye on Amlawdd.”

  “Yet you bedded her.”

  “Aye, I bedded her! Brigid is a two-faced bitch who could as easily tattle to Amlawdd as to me. I give her pretty jewels and pretty words and keep her belly full with my attentions and her tongue wagging in my direction.” He held up a finger, was standing before her. “And before you say it, aye, I also enjoy it. I told you not to ride here with me, it was your choice, not mine. If the saddle’s giving you a sore backside either put up with it or get off and walk!” He knew he ought not to be shouting, but admitting being in the wrong was not an easy medicine to swallow. He marched back to the door, tore it open. “I am leaving, I have something to do. If you want to stay here that’s up to you. No doubt Amlawdd will find you a bed.”

  “Damn you, Arthur!” Gwenhwyfar ran to the door, shouting as his departing back. “If that is what you want, leave me here to finish Amlawdd my way!” She pulled her sword from its scabbard, waved the blade in the vague direction of Amlawdd’s Hall.

  Arthur halted in mid-stride, closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. He turned round, strode back to her, pushed her inside the chamber and slammed the door shut behind him. “You know damned well that is not what I want.” He took her angry face between his hands, tilted his head on one side and suddenly smiled. “Mithras but you are beautiful when you glower like that.”

  “Don’t try to sweet talk me, Pendragon!”

  Indignant he put his hand on his heart. “Me? Sweet-talk you? You’re too bad-tempered for that, my lass!” He was winning her round! He breathed a sigh of relief. Blood, that had been a close one! He placed a light kiss on her cheek, left her a moment to fetch her cloak and draped it around her shoulders. “Brigid has told me everything we need to know, Cymraes, but she is a cunning cow, she’ll only tell on her terms. And she is very jealous of you.” He spread his hands, offering peace. “I am with Brigid, what, once a year?” A small lie would not do harm. “She has to live with the knowing you have me all the rest of the nights.”

  Swallowing her pride, Gwenhwyfar asked, “She told you of Ider?” Grim, Arthur nodded.

  “Bad news?”

  Again he nodded, but this time reached out for her and held her to him. He laid his head against hers, stroked the softness of her unruly hair. “He was in love with you, wasn’t he?” Only a slight pause before asking, “Did you love him back?”

  She half laughed, began to reply, “Of course not, I… ” then realised what he had said. “Was? Arthur, you said was?” She brought her head up from his chest, searched his eyes, those usually unreadable, veiled eyes that kept his secrets to himself. But not this time; the hurt and unnecessary waste was there, plain to see. “Amlawdd had him killed?”

  For a third time, Arthur nodded. He would not trust his voice to answer. He had loved Ider too, though, for all that was dear to him, he hoped her love was the same platonic affection they shared with all the men.

  “There is nothing we can do for him, Cymraes, save go and find his body and give him burial.”

  Bitter, Gwenhwyfar pushed him from her, her hands viciously thumping on his chest. “So, you let Amlawdd attack your family and murder your men without revenge?”

  He contained an angry retort, accepting her remark as justified, misguided perhaps, but justified.

  “I know what I am doing, Cymraes. Trust me. Please?”

  She was on the verge of shouting again, but something in his voice caught at her, a hint of intention, a self-made promise that he was not lying, but waiting. “I do trust you,” she acknowledged, “where men are concerned.” Her smiled widened. “Well? Are we going?” She picked up her saddlebag, planted a cheery kiss on his cheek as she passed him on her way to the door. “But trust you to keep your bracae laced where a woman’s concerned? I’d have more faith in a cockerel laying an egg!”

  Arthur laughed, sauntered after her, linked his arm through hers as they strolled down the incline to the waiting horses. It was a fine day, the rain quite gone, the earth smelling rich and dark from its wetting. The sun had risen in a splendour of bright hope and Gwenhwyfar half closed her eyes against its morning glare. When they reached the horses, Arthur bent, took Gwenhwyfar’s knee and hoisted her into the saddle. She settled herself comfortably, walked her horse beside Arthur’s as they rode towards the gatehouse. Asked, almost casually, “And does Amlawdd know that Rhica will not be returning from his hunting?”

  Arthur pushed into a trot, answered curtly, “No, but he soon will.”

  They found Ider where Brigid said they would, lying beside the curve of the river, half hidden by last autumn’s dead bracken with the broken haft of a spear protruding at an angle from his stomach, the dried ooze of dark blood staining his tunic. Squatting beside the body, Arthur massaged his face with his hand. No matter how many deaths he witnessed, each brought a rise of bile. The fool; the damn-fool lad! What had he hoped to achieve? If it were an easy thing to be rid of that poxed bastard, Amlawdd, then Arthur himself would have slit him open years past. But to die like this? Again, he wiped his face, sat a moment, staring at the spear shaft, thinking, saying, nothing. He heard a footfall behind and leapt up, spinning around, grasped Gwenhwyfar and turned her aside in the one swift-made motion. “You do not want to see, Cymraes.”

  Her smile was weak, a brave face. “There are many things I do not want Arthur, but I seem to get them anyway.”

  He let her go, stood with her, his arm light around her waist as she too looked at the bloody mess that had once been a promising young man.

  Tears were trickling down her face as Gwenhwyfar knelt beside the body. His face was bruised, one lip gashed. They had beaten him first then. Did she love him? Arthur had asked her, and now she asked herself. Arthur angered her so often; he was not always faithful to her. To take a lover would be one way of paying back the frequent pain Arthur caused her, but then, you did not cure a wound to the thigh by making another on the arm.

  Ider? A lover? He had made her laugh when she felt like crying, made her feel safe when Arthur was not around. She had liked him, but loved him beyond the love one gave to a good friend? No, there was only one Gwenhwyfar loved, which is why she choked down the pain and kep
t her eyes closed. She tentatively touched the bruised swelling on Ider’s cheek, drew back immediately with a squeal, leapt to her feet. “Christ God’s mercy!” she yelped, “he’s alive, Arthur!”

  The Pendragon had instinctively drawn his sword at her startled exclamation. He dropped it to the grass, flung himself down beside Ider, reaching to search for a beat of life. It was there! Faint, but there!

  They fashioned a litter from blankets and spears for Ider, riding slowly, stopping frequently, and left Rhica’s body where Ider had been found, impaled by that same broken haft of spear. Except now, it wore a dragon pennant so Amlawdd would know when they found his son – Arthur had already insured through Brigid he would be found – that Arthur had declared the war, and dared Amlawdd to respond.

  June 465

  XV

  “My head aches.”

  Gwenhwyfar glanced up from the letter she was writing at her son. He did seem rather pale. “You have been in the sun over-long, go sit in the shade a while.”

  “But the fish prefer the sun, I’ll not catch anything if I move.” Gwenhwyfar laughed, indicated the pole and line. “You have not caught anything anyway!”

  That was true, but the boy had no intention of conceding her point. He fitted bait to the hook, cast his line and watched the worm wriggle a moment beneath the cool, green water. He sat on the bank, his feet dangling into the river; there were fish, he could see them further out sheltering in the weeds mid-stream. Once or twice he saw one rise, take a fly. He would do better with a lighter line and a fly for bait, worms did not seem to be favoured this day. Happen the shade would be better; he swivelled round to study the overhanging trees up-river. Pike might lurk there, in those shadows – his mouth opened in a silent oh as a figure came from out of the shade, its finger pressed firm to lips, head shaking. Grinning, Llacheu immediately understood, entered into the jest.