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by Helen Hollick

  September 465

  XVII

  Nessa ducked through the small side streets of Deva’s rambling civilian settlement, it was late afternoon but few were about, the rain keeping them indoors. It was only servants who scurried, cloaks and hoods held close, through these cobbled, dung-strewn streets on such a wet afternoon.

  When the Pendragon and family moved south to the new Caer her request to remain with Bedwyr had been granted. They had been here at Deva a few months now, moved at Arthur’s express orders. Caer Luel, he feared, held a handful too much sympathy for Hueil, who was gathering his strength with a pace the wrong side of a canter. Deva was a stronger settlement, clinging to its Roman military loyalty, still affectionately called the City of Legions, although the rows of barracks that had once housed the Legio XX Valeria Victrix, the Twentieth Legion, the Brave and Victorious, had stood empty for longer than a man living could remember. To reach Deva, Hueil would need to trail his men down through Rheged, giving time for Arthur to receive the alarm – and Deva ranged against Gwynedd’s borders. Gwynedd would be in this thing too when Hueil marched, for his deposed father and ousted brothers had fled into the protection of Gwynedd where Caw’s eldest daughter was wedded to Dogmail, son of Cunedda, and brother to Enniaun.

  Coming out from the side street onto a busier Via Castrorum, Nessa dodged around an ox cart trundling its slow way along to the west gate, and ducked into an ill-lit alleyway opposite. She stopped at the third door along, looked over her shoulder and entered. From the folds of her cloak she brought a scroll of parchment, handed it with solemnity to the house slave who came bustling to receive her.

  She waited, alone in the quietness of this antechamber while the slave went in search of her master. She took off her cloak, shook the worst of the wet from its folds, patted her hair into place; inspected a bronze statuette standing upon a tri-legged table, squeaked, startled, as a voice rumbled across the echoing room.

  “You came for me, Madam?”

  Nessa spun around, indicated the scroll held in the man’s corpulent hand. “My mistress is ill, the letter bids me bring you to her. Only you, of all the apothecaries residing in this settlement, will she see.”

  The apothecary smiled and nodded self-gratification. “I will come within the hour.” Nessa bobbed a polite courtesy and let herself out once again into the rain-wet street. There were plenty of others, slaves or servants, who could have run this errand to fetch the apothecary to Morgause, but she insisted Nessa go, and for the sake of peace it was wise not to cross Morgause’s demands, however unreasonable they might be.

  Morgause, Bedwyr had decided, had a temper like a spear-struck boar, a vocabulary as rancid as a gutter whore and was as companionable as a cloak full of fleas.

  He was seated cross-legged outside her door, cleaning his sword. It did not need the attention, but it was something to do while he waited for that odious, fat little man to leave. Morgause called him her personal physician – an exaggerated title for a back-street dispenser of herbs and potions, but, if he kept the bitch happy, who was Bedwyr to argue? She had first summoned him within a week of arriving here; stomach cramps it had been then, and an insistence that she was being deliberately poisoned. Then came headaches, a sprained ankle, female trouble. This time it was a head cold. From the fuss she made anyone could be forgiven for thinking she was dying from a fatal dose of the pox. Huh, if only!

  Bedwyr enjoyed this position of command; life, beyond Morgause, was easy. He had wanted to join Arthur, but comparative idleness suited him just as well. He was not a lazy man, but neither was he restless as his cousin the Pendragon could be. The time to fight would come and Bedwyr was content to wait. The hunting around Deva was good and there came sufficient demands to keep a mind alert – he had Nessa to warm him at night, and their new-started first babe beginning to show around her belly. He ought to consider marrying her, but Nessa always shied from the suggestion, saying a noble-born man needed a woman of the same kind as wife, insisted she was content to be his mistress.

  Nessa was in there now with Morgause and this wretched apothecary. Morgause forbade Bedwyr to enter her room and he had need to place someone of trust there, to ensure Arthur’s strict ruling. No visitors for Morgause. No letters, in or out. No communication with the world beyond the fortress of Deva’s strong, defensive walls. She was to be constantly watched, in health or illness; never allowed to be alone. Two guards at the door, two maids – and Nessa to stand beside the apothecary while he poked and pried at whatever ailment currently threatened Morgause.

  Yet still the bloody messages got through! There was no proof of it, nothing concrete, but Arthur had sent word that things were passing down the wind. How? How the damned hell was she doing it? Bedwyr rubbed more oil lovingly into the blade of his sword, his hands busy with the familiar task, mind currying for answers. Almost, he could believe the gossip that Morgause was a witch with a knowledge of the magic arts. Could it be the birds that took her messages south and north? The black ravens that lived along the rooftops of the watchtowers? Did she have the Sight? Was it in the flame of the hearth-fire that she saw all that Arthur did? Or perhaps, as they said down in the officers’ quarters, she really could talk to the wind?

  Questions, questions. Black-and-white questions producing rainbow-mixed answers!

  Bedwyr took up his stone and began easing it in long, steady strokes down the oiled and gleaming sword, giving it an edge as sharp as a frosted winter’s morning. He worked with a love and deliberation that flowed from his hands; and with it a half-thought wish that he could take up this blade and slit the woman’s throat, put an end to these answerless riddles.

  Sounds from beyond the door, a woman coughing; the apothecary’s stentorian voice; footsteps. The latch lifted, the door swung open. Bedwyr set down his stone, rose, the sword held beneath his folded arms, stood blocking the narrow corridor from the chamber.

  The apothecary was a summer-fattened weasel with small darting eyes and the stench of rotting cabbage about him. His tunic was patched and faded, bracae bulging tight around his middle that barrelled beneath a triple chin, wobbling under red-blotched, sweating skin. His teeth were false, ivory-carved, his hair, what remained of it, greasy. How in all the god’s guises could Morgause bear his touch and foul breath? There could be only one reason, one reason alone for these constant, petty illnesses, this summoning of a next-to-worthless peasant’s apothecary.

  With menacing slowness, Bedwyr raised his sword as the man shambled along the corridor. He stopped, his little eyes almost disappearing beneath the red-splotched flesh, the sword tip touching light against his belly.

  “Open your bag,” Bedwyr ordered. “Empty the contents to the floor.” The man took a breath to protest, but Bedwyr nudged the sword. “You can open it for me, sir, or I can kill you and then open it at my leisure.” Bedwyr’s smile was wicked. “It is your choice.”

  Squatting, Bedwyr searched through the spill of instruments, phials and pots. No papers. No parchments, no slate or wax tablets. Nothing. He stood, again pointing his sword.

  “Now. Strip.”

  Nessa was furious with him, taking Bedwyr’s suspicions as personal insult. For three days she avoided him, choosing to sleep instead with the women, tossing her pert head and turning her back on him whenever he came to talk with her.

  As always, Morgause delighted in the conflict, taking pleasure in stirring harsh words between lovers, however indirectly she had managed it.

  Her rooms, her prison, had all the trappings of luxurious comfort: fine-made furniture and rich wall hangings. But quality surroundings, the best food and wine, perfumes and expensive clothing could never make up for her loss of freedom – especially at the hands of this whelp.

  Muddying calm water in the course of her plotting, seeing the sweet turn sour, however, had always amused her.

  Confinement had its compensations.

  October 465

  XVIII

  Winifred’s steading to the s
outh of Venta Bulgarium – or Winifred’s Castre as the English were calling it – seemed prosperous enough. Arthur and his escort of a single turma followed the track through outlying fields, all well hedged and fenced, enclosing plump, healthy stock. The hayricks were high stacked, sweet smelling and free from mildew. It galled like an ill-fitting saddle that Winifred’s farm was thriving. Did no drought or driving rain threaten Saex crops then? Arthur’s nostrils flared as if assailed by some foul stench. It seemed even the elements did not dare confront this bloody woman!

  Judging by the number of buildings, the farm was of village status. Winifred’s personal dwelling, situated predominantly on a slight rise, was large, rectangular, with all the outward appearance of a queen’s Hall. The smoke trails of a camp curled into the pale, washed-blue sky beyond the steading. A white horse standard, sited central to the bustling activity and scattered campfires, fluttered in the lazy breeze. Aesc, son of Hengest, was already here then. Arthur rode easy in the saddle, unhurried.

  Were all the inhabitants gathered to witness his arrival? Women stood at house-place doorways, hands raised, shielding the glare of a low autumn sun. Red-cheeked, excited children clustered at their skirts. The men were drifting in from their tithed strip fields to join their womenfolk, the murmurings and exchanged speculative talk rising as the Pendragon rode past. His fingers clenched tighter around Onager’s reins as he saw Winifred come from her Hall. She stood waiting, her expression unreadable; came, poised and graceful, down the steps as he rode up and halted. Playing the dignity of a royal queen for all it was worth.

  Arthur frowned as he saw a tall man emerging from the cluster of people at the doorway behind her. Ambrosius Aurelianus. They had pax between them, Arthur and his uncle, but the one still did not wholly trust the other; an uneasy, tentative peace. Winifred could, as always, hatch a melting pot of mischief. A flutter of unease buffeted his insides – who was that man in the Christian stories, the one who entered the lion’s den? Daniel? Arthur had a sudden, overwhelming empathy with Daniel.

  Ten years past he had intended to have Winifred executed, when she was his wife, but the heavy rain of that year had burst the Hafren’s banks and she had escaped. He regretted, as he dismounted and subjected himself to her over-intimate embrace, failing to hang her. Had he pursued that escape and hacked her bloody head off he would not be saddled with her, her son, or this damned Council – well the last was not true, Hengest’s son ruled the Cantii Saex, they would need to meet at some time sooner or later. Except, later would have been preferable to this meeting arranged by Winifred.

  She was talking as she escorted him up the steps and into her house-place, her arm linked possessively through his. Polite conversation, asking after his health, the journey, saying he must be hungry. “You received my letter?” she asked as they approached Ambrosius.

  Arthur nodded a stilted, though courteous, greeting to the man. “Which one?”

  Laughing, Winifred took his answer as a jest, sounding like a young girl. She looked striking too, although the close-caught veil around her head and face hid her fair Saxon-coloured hair. Her skin was clear, eyes sparkling bright. Her dark, Christian garments suited her plumper figure, bringing elegance to her stature. Her only item of jewellery, aside the keys dangling from her belt, was an ornate cross hanging between her ample breasts. At two years short of thirty, she was a handsome woman and despite the cold blood that Arthur knew to run behind this warm smile of welcome, still desirable. But then, he reflected, an adder was beautiful to look at. It was the bite you had to be wary of.

  Two boys stood with the cluster of adults, both glowering. The fair one, the shorter of the two and full of his own self-importance, had to be his son, Cerdic. The other, the dark-haired tall boy with the fixed scowl, was Vitolinus, Winifred’s brother.

  Wine was brought – although not the shared chalice. That was a British tribal tradition, surviving from heathen days and Winifred ostentatiously professed the Christian faith. Ambrosius came to make his greeting, as irritated as Arthur that Winifred insisted on remaining fixed at her ex-husband’s side. The Pendragon managed to loosen the limpet cling of her arm, extricating himself with the need to greet his uncle.

  “I did not expect to see you at this Council with the English, Ambrosius,” Arthur said, adding as he nodded in the direction of the dark haired boy, “Nor do I recall giving permission for Vortigern’s brat to be here.” They had clasped hands, a brief touch, instantly broken as they stepped back from each other, eye looking to eye, each wary of the other’s intention.

  “I have my reasons to be here, nephew, and Vitolinus was entrusted into my jurisdiction when you took him as hostage from Hengest. He is secure.”

  Arthur laughed without humour. “As long as you realise the responsibility for him lies firmly on your shoulders.” With meaning, he added, “I do not want him going back to the Saex.”

  Ambrosius inclined his head, Winifred purposefully threaded her arm through Arthur’s again, and steered him further into the Hall, walking intimately close. “I assure you, Arthur, my brother is quite safe under my personal eye.” She spoke firm, the first hint of austerity tarnishing the glitter of sunny disposition.

  “Ah.” Arthur pointedly removed her arm, took a step away from her familiarity. That he believed. Winifred would allow no one to stand in the way of her own-born son – who could, given the right circumstances, be as entitled to rule the Cantii Land after Aesc as Vitolinus. And Vitolinus, for that very reason, was as good as dead, were he to tread beyond the bounds of his stipulated, monastic life. Arthur chuckled quietly to himself. Another victim for the lion’s den?

  Of that other boy, his son, Arthur said nothing.

  He eventually managed to extricate himself and join his men as they made camp on the furthest side of the steading, away from the Saex. There was a copse of beech flaring with October colour, distinct against the green of the oak wood that strode across the hill beyond the boundary wall. The bracken had turned gold, and there had come a touch of frost with the dawn. The air was crisp, the smell of autumn-damp soil rich and pleasant. The men had not brought tents: a one-night halt needed no fuss. They would roll themselves in their wolf-skin cloaks before the embers of the fires and sleep, resting their heads on their saddles. Arthur tossed his own saddlebag down beside a fire that was already blazing. What suited his men would suit him, it would not be the first time he awoke with his hair frozen to the hard ground. It was a part of soldiering, along with poor food and the ache of old wounds.

  The sunset blazed brief but glorious, promising another fine day on the morrow, and as the sky turned from glowing orange to velvet purple, Arthur put his cloak about his shoulders and returned, reluctantly, to Winifred’s Hall, taking only two men as escort.

  Once again Winifred welcomed him with a show of fondness, led him to the high table spread with autumn-brilliant flowers, dishes of tempting fruits and pastries, jars brimming with wine. She had excelled herself for this special feasting. Ambrosius was seated with several men from the Church – the two boys were at the table also. So, Winifred was ensuring her son would be noticed? Well, let her flaunt him, he, Arthur, would not rise to her bait!

  Many others were crowded into the Hall. Half the size of Arthur’s at Caer Cadan, but twice as opulent. The walls were part stone-built, and where, in Arthur’s place, shields and weapons were hung, here, rich tapestries and embroideries depicting Christian scenes decorated the pink-coloured, plastered walls.

  There were no rushes spread over the floor, the boards lay bare but swept and scrubbed clean. Roof beams bore no tangle of dusty cobwebs or discarded bird’s nests. Even the smoke from torches, lamps and hearth-fire seemed to obey Winifred’s rule of neat tidiness, for the columns marched straight up and out of the smoke-holes. There came a stir from beyond the door, like an eddy of sudden gusting wind, and tall, fair-haired, bearded men were striding in, proud in their armour. The man at the front wore no shirt, woollen bracae and boots only, with a r
ed-woven cloak tossed about his shoulders. Amulets ringed his forearms and biceps, a heavy chain of worked gold lay on his chest, crossing under his jewel-encrusted baldric. So this was Aesc, the son of Hengest and brother to Winifred’s mother. Aesc, who led the Jute settlers of the Cantii territory.

  The Saex – there were forty of them – halted. There was no salute, no acknowledgement to Arthur. They stood in silence, Aesc’s bodyguard ranked before the Pendragon and the two men of his turma who stood at either shoulder.

  Aesc stepped forward. He was a man of bulk; bull necked, heavy jowled, with eyes that were narrow but missed not the falling of a sparrow’s feather.

  “Arthur,” he said in his guttural Germanic tongue, “this is well met!”

  Arthur made no attempt to offer a hand of greeting. The Saex had come armed, whereas his Artoriani had entered the settlement that afternoon with spear tips down.

  “You come wearing a sword and carrying shield and spear.” Arthur spoke casually, in a dialect of Aesc’s own tongue. It was a scored point over the Jute, for he spoke no British or Latin. Arthur indicated his own two men, who carried no weapons. “I understood this meeting was to be for the renewing of the treaties of peace I made with your honoured father; not to toss insults of hostility.”

  The Jute stood a hand-span taller than Arthur, his chest glistened with rubbed oil, showing the ripple of muscle. He dipped his spear towards Arthur’s own sword. “You wear a sword.”

  Arthur threaded his thumbs through the leather baldric from which hung the sword. “I do. But then, as Supreme King of all Britain, I am entitled to.” He regarded Aesc some shrewd moments longer, judging the man, then moving with casual slowness began to draw the weapon. Several of Aesc’s men caught their breath and started forward, but Aesc turned his head, growled his displeasure at them, ordering them to remain still.