Ignoring the mistrust, Arthur held the naked sword flat across his palms, letting the flickering torchlight ripple on its faceted welding.
Crafted by the heating of iron rods twisted together as in the making of a plaited rope, then reheated white-hot before being hammered flat into a blade that held unbound strength and beauty, then finally polished and honed to an edge that could slice the wind, Arthur’s great sword shimmered its perfection. An awed hush fell over the Saex.
“This,” Arthur said, “is the sword of Wayland, given to mortal man’s keeping by the Lady.”
Aesc smiled, a lopsided half-grin beneath his braided moustache and bushed beard. He had heard the story, told him by his own father, the story of how the Pendragon came by the wondrous sword of the English gods. “You possess it still?”
The Pendragon let the heavy blade point swing to the ground, stood holding the hilt in both hands. “I possess it still. I took it in battle; there is no man with strength enough to take it from me.” For a moment he held Aesc’s gaze, then he walked down the length of the Hall, the crowd of silent, watching men and women parting before him, walked to the doorway, where solemnly he leant the beautiful sword against the plaster wall.
He turned, paced back, stood again before Aesc. “I rest my weapon within the sacred threshold of this Hall, where none save my own hand shall risk the wrath of the God that does protect this dwelling, by the touching of it.” Arthur stepped aside. It was an open challenge. Respond, or give a greater insult that would bring shame on Aesc and his kindred’s kindred. All eyes rested on the Jute leader.
Aesc stayed motionless and then suddenly he guffawed, a single bark of mirth. He drew his sword, strode down the Hall and placed his weapon alongside Arthur’s, the two blades touching. “Now we show our teeth are bared not in snarls of war, but in smiles of friendship!” He barked an order for his men similarly to stack their weapons, came before the Pendragon, extending his arms in greeting. Arthur almost felt his bones give way beneath that crushing embrace. This man needed no weapon, for he had the strength in those oak-built arms to crush a bear.
“You live well,” Arthur observed to Winifred as the slaves brought around huge platters of boar and venison and beef. The laughter of a filled feasting Hall swirled high to the rafters, as headily potent as the wine and as rich as the food.
“Well enough for a woman alone.”
Arthur sipped his wine. “I have not hindered you to re-wed. The Englishman Leofric asks for you often, so I hear. You ought to accept; a man in your bed may give you other things to do aside from writing inane letters to me.”
Winifred, with no intention of answering his taunting, let the remark sail to the roof beams. She busied herself with selecting meat, masking the rise of heat to her face. Leofric’s persistence was becoming an embarrassment. Her constant refusals were getting her nowhere; she would have to think again on how to deal with the wretched man!
Seeing her discomfort, Arthur chuckled. He pointed at Ambrosius, said, his mouth full of venison, “Why not wed with my uncle? I would need only to pay the one set of spies then!” Not surprisingly, Winifred did not share his laughter.
Cerdic, to Arthur’s annoyance, was also seated at the high table, a few places down but near enough to overhear. Loudly, the boy retorted, “My mother already has a husband. It is not I who bears the description bastard.”
Arthur selected bread, broke off a hunk. If Llacheu had spoken such an intentional insult he would have been thrashed instantly, regardless of company. He bit into the bread, fresh baked, warm from the ovens. “Your crops have been good this year then, Winifred?” He was determined not to let the brat rile him, though by the Bull he was finding it difficult!
They talked of minor things, the weather, the harvest, steering a clear path around the subjects that could cause argument: politics and marriage; the Christian Church. Arthur noted the carvings on the roof beams and lintels bore traditional pagan designs similar to the carved heads and faces in his own Hall, put there to ward off the spirits of evil. Christianity, no matter how strong it grew, would never quite shrug aside the binding rules of man’s frail superstition. He mustered courage to toss a direct statement. “Gwenhwyfar is my legal wife, Winifred. I realise you dislike the fact, but like it or no, there it is.”
“God’s laws speak against putting aside a wife,” she answered, defiant.
“I do not believe in God.”
“If one winter the snows came and did not thaw,” Winifred spoke quickly, her hand resting, light but possessive, on Arthur’s arm, “would you expect me to stay in my Hall, muffled in furs and say, “the snow is here, I must accept it and long no more for the warmth of summer”?” Her fingers caressed the smooth inner skin along his forearm. “I cannot deny my need for the sun any more than I can relinquish my love for you.”
Arthur knew well how Winifred excelled at manipulating words to fit her need, but in this, obscurely, he believed her.
Cerdic was finding this whole situation difficult to handle. As a young child, he had clung to the belief that one day the King of all Britain would come riding on a white stallion and place his mother where she belonged, as Queen, and himself as Prince and heir. It had all been some misunderstanding, this separation between his mother and father, some political move beyond a child’s reasoning. When Arthur at last came, there would be great joy and celebration. He would take his son up on his saddle before the people and show that he, Cerdic, was the cherished son of a king. Then his father would kiss his mother, hold her close and disappear into the privacy of the sleeping place, as his friend Wulfric always did with his wife after they had quarrelled.
Summer had followed summer, and Arthur had never come, until now. And now it was too late, for Cerdic felt himself no longer to be a child, and he had learned to hate Arthur, as he had assumed his mother hated him. How often had he heard Winifred spit words of animosity and contempt for the Pendragon? Heard her shrill at the injustice of his desertion? Cerdic had witnessed his mother’s tears, her suffering at being a woman wronged and for that, above all, Cerdic hated his father.
The Pendragon’s unexpected acceptance to attend this arranged Council had shocked everyone. Cerdic had assumed his mother would tell Arthur when he arrived of their suffering and pain. Was that not why she had been so flustered all this day? Was that not why she had spoken so sharply to him during the afternoon? Why then, did she not spew out the words of contempt? What he had not bargained for was his mother’s star-shine sparkle of happiness as Arthur’s horse and escort came into view. She was like those silly unwed girls who giggled at the young men. Where were the rantings, the venting of hurt feeling and frustration? What had happened to those oft-repeated threats of what she would do and say to Arthur when she saw him? Where was the bold talk that had been a background noise to Cerdic’s entire life? The boy could not believe, would not accept, that his mother still loved the Pendragon.
He stabbed his eating dagger into the meat, screwing the blade round, imagining how it would be to thrust the point into Arthur’s heart.
Vitolinus was seated next to Cerdic. This was the first time the boys had met, cloistered as Vitolinus was in that dismal monastery, chanting his way from one monotonous day to the next. He placed his hand over Cerdic’s. “One day,” he said, “when we have the wit and strength of men grown, the Pendragon shall answer to our blades.”
Cerdic, eyes rounding, regarded Winifred’s brother with new-found respect. In a rush of needing to understand, he blurted, “Why does my mother fondle him so? She is like the new-married women pawing all over their taken husbands.”
Vitolinus helped himself to food; the monastery stuff was poor. He made no attempt at an answer. If his sister wanted to be a prize fool by draping herself all over that bastard, then it was her concern. Personally speaking, he would rather see the Pendragon’s throat slit open.
XIX
The Hall was rising, men and women going tired and drink-filled to their beds.
Aesc departed with much noise and parade. The serious talking would come on the morrow, this night had been for feasting, idle conversation and laughter. A chance to make assessments, first impressions and hasty judgements. Drink-muffled minds did not lend themselves to hard bargaining and possible disagreement.
Arthur found himself releasing a breath of held tension once Aesc and his ostentatious bodyguard had departed. While he held no fear for the man, a picked quarrel at this juncture was not desirable.
Ambrosius rose from the bench, gave his good-nights to Winifred and Arthur, but the Pendragon rose with him. “I will walk with you,” Arthur said, nodding his leaving to Winifred. At the door he retrieved his sword, slid it, with an inward sigh of relief, into his scabbard. It felt like having an arm missing, not having the sword swinging comfortably against his hip.
“I sleep within the shelter of Our Lord,” Ambrosius said, indicating Winifred’s chapel, as they stepped outside. “The priest has comfortable rooms beyond.”
There was a brittle touch of frost in the air, with the stars littering the sky as if they were the uncountable campfires of some vast army. Several men were drifting to or returning from the latrine pits.
Arthur pointed to the left, said, “I need to check the horses, will you walk with me?”
His uncle saw no reason to refuse, the night was chill but it had been hot and fuggy within the crowded Hall. To sleep on a muzzy head would cause discomfort come morning, so he walked alongside Arthur, saying nothing, their boots scrunching on the frost-hard ground.
Several horses whinnied low calls of greeting as they approached. They looked well, with hay piled in the centre, water buckets filled. Arthur leant across the fencing, hand extended to stroke a soft, enquiring muzzle.
“It is some time since we talked alone,” he said cautiously.
“There has been naught for the saying.”
I am not forgiven yet for my sins then, Arthur thought wearily, said cheerfully, “Your son is well?” It was always difficult talking of Ambrosius’s born son, for the lad had suffered illness as a young boy leaving his legs twisted and weak.
As he had hoped, pride encouraged Ambrosius to answer in a friendly manner. “He shows promise despite his deformity. Poor legs do not necessarily make a poor mind. He has much of my mother in him -and the build of her father.”
Relaxing, Arthur grinned. He really had nothing to fear from Ambrosius, they were both, when it came down to it, fighting in the same turma.
“Without the beard I trust! Bull’s blood,” he faltered briefly, aware of Ambrosius’s frown at his use of the pagan oath, carried on, “I was terrified of the man. Built as big as a giant, wide as an oak, and that great bush of hair smothering his face and chin? Mithras he was enormous!”
Ambrosius too, leaned on the fence, stretched his hand to pat a chestnut horse. “I was not aware you knew my father?”
“Aye, you all came to Less Britain one summer. I was three I think, four? You seemed so adult to me, though you are, what, only a handful of years older?”
Ambrosius was frowning, leaning on his arms along the top rail of the fence. He shook his head, lifted one hand in apology. “I confess I do not remember you. Less Britain I do, Ygrainne, Uthr, but… ” He let the sentence trail off, embarrassed.
Arthur grunted. “‘Tis not so surprising. You would not have noticed a boy who was thought to be the fatherless son of a serving girl.”
Ambrosius’s frown had deepened, trying to recall that far distant summer. He had enjoyed himself in Less Britain, had even, for that short while, liked his elder brother, Uthr. “Wait, I do remember! A grimed lad toddling round me like a pup at heel, always clutching a damned wooden sword! Christ’s love, was that you?” He was laughing, delighted at the return of that memory of youth.
Grinning, Arthur nodded. “Aye, that was me.”
“Christ’s love!” Ambrosius repeated. “I remember kicking you because you were becoming such a bloody nuisance!”
They were both laughing, their arms going around each other’s shoulders in the mutual sharing of the past. “I kicked you back. Received a thrashing for it too.” Arthur’s laughter eased, he shook his head, occasionally guffawing. “It took me some months to understand why I was the one thrashed when you had been the one to kick first.” He shrugged. “It falls hard on a lad to be labelled bastard-born.”
Turning so that his back leant against the wooden fence, Ambrosius said, “Yet you have abandoned your son to be so labelled.”
Arthur chewed his lip. “The circumstances are different.”
“No, they are not. Winifred is, for all her faults, a good woman at heart, you know.” They had somehow moved a few paces apart, the shared congeniality fading.
“She is a clever woman, I grant you that.”
Although he knew he was wasting his breath, Ambrosius pursued the subject. “She has founded three churches and donated much financial help towards the feeding and shelter of the poor and sick.”
“Were I also to build a Christian church, would that change your opinion of me?” Arthur retorted.
“No.”
“I thought not.”
A group of men, Saex, reeled by on the return from the latrines, their singing and drunken laughter loud against the still night. They did not see the two men leaning against the fence. Arthur glanced at Ambrosius. It was as well his uncle spoke nothing of the English tongue, for the group’s remarks had not been over-polite about the Christian British. He fondled the horse before him, a fine young chestnut with a good, bold eye, the Decurion’s horse. Onager was tethered in the barn; Arthur could never turn him loose with others.
“Why do you still hate me, Ambrosius? What great wrong have I done you?”
Ambrosius tilted his head back, gazed up at the stars. God’s wondrous creations. Did he hate Arthur? Christ Jesu said to love. No, he did not hate the Pendragon, was irritated by him, more like. Jealous even? As he had been jealous of his older, wiser and braver brother? A difficult medicine to swallow, the truth. He sighed, closed his eyes in brief prayer. What was there to answer?
“Because you have turned out to be everything that I, as a boy, had so wanted to be.”
Arthur laughed. “What? Bloody-minded, callous, a fornicating adulterer and a heathen!” The laughter deepened. “I think those are some of the milder descriptive terms you have publicly applied to me.”
Annoyed that Arthur had deliberately misunderstood, Ambrosius jeered, “Do you deny them?” He looked away from the skies, his challenge direct.
Arthur shrugged, replied amiably, unoffended. “I am trying to give up the adultery.” He laughed again, aware even in the darkness of Ambrosius’s disapproval. “Hard to believe, but true! I have been an honest and faithful husband for some months now.” Losing the laughter, he turned the subject. “Can you deny my achievement with the Artoriani? We have peace.” He sniffed pessimistically. He was tired, the day’s ride had been long and his thigh was aching, that old wound throbbing deep within the muscles. “Though for how long, only your God, Hueil of the North, and the English have the knowing.”
When Ambrosius made no reply, Arthur asked, “I need your help to keep this peace, Uncle. If you can take care of God for me, I’ll deal with Hueil, and together, we can tether the English.” Still nothing from Ambrosius. Arthur swung away from the fence, striking the top bar angrily with his fist. “You see only what you want to see, Ambrosius. The sunny days, the corn growing high in well-tended fields.” Arthur stepped towards the other man, his fist raised, clenched, nostrils flaring. “Well rain falls too, you know. Harvests fail.”
Arthur’s breathing had quickened, he took several deep breaths to regain control of the anger. He did not want to argue. Limply he said, “Our people, British people, backed a tyrant, Vortigern, because they were belly- sick of Rome’s corruption. Rome claimed our taxes, our menfolk – needed here – and gave nothing in return except hollow promises. The power that was Rome is dying, is dead. I ha
ve no wish to die with it.” Arthur expected his uncle to answer, to belch his usual claims for the Roman way; that the Emperor would be back. Nothing. Ambrosius just stood there, looking up at the stars. Arthur had thought himself too tired for an argument, but suddenly he wanted one. Suddenly wanted to shout and bellow. To kick the man who had first kicked him and not worry about getting a thrashing for it. And so he goaded him again, sneering mockery at his uncle’s ideals. “Would you like me to send a plea to the western Emperor then? I assume Severus has not yet been murdered?” His tone was thick with sarcasm. “I doubt he could take time away from balancing on his tenuous hold of cliff-edged power to consider our plight, but if that is what you wish… ” Arthur smacked his palm to his forehead, “Fool I am! Happen you would prefer I implored the Emperor of the East, Leo himself. Will he have enough interest in us, a rain-sodden destitute little island, to make sail and come to our aid?”
His voice, very quiet, subdued, Ambrosius answered, “We tried appealing before.”
“And were told to look to ourselves. Which is what I am doing.” Arthur slid his thumb through his sword belt, rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and back to his heels. “Another bishop could come and teach my men to shout “Alleluia!” and send the enemy running in fear. It worked well once before, I believe.”
Ambrosius growled something inaudible at Arthur’s ridicule then stated, “Bishop Germanus was a good man, a valiant soldier and a devout man of God.”
His hands held out flat, palms down, Arthur conceded, “If my tutoring serves me well, he had come with papal blessing to see Vortigern secure as King, provided that same king could comply fully with the putting down of certain heretical notions that were abroad at the time. One of those strange quirks of fate led the bishop to be in a position to see off a small band of hostile raiders.”
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