Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  Turning aside, Ambrosius laced his fingers behind his back. The stars were indeed beautiful this night. It was true, the Christian Church had blessed Vortigern’s claim to the kingdom, verifying that Britain, then as now, was very much alone.

  Breaking the stiff, angry silence, Arthur said, “Rome is finished, Ambrosius, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can forget our quarrelling and work together for our own land, our own people.”

  Ambrosius sighed, audibly loud, long. He pushed himself from the fence, turned to face Arthur, offered his hand. “You are right. Everything you say is right. I agree.”

  Arthur stood there, gaping open-mouthed looking from Ambrosius’s face to his outstretched hand, back to his face. Had he drunk more wine than he realised then? Surely he was drunk? Hesitant, half afeared he was dreaming and to take that hand would break the dream, Arthur took his uncle’s proffered grasp. Then they were laughing together, embracing, patting each other’s shoulders. Stupidly, Arthur almost had the need to brush a tear from his eye.

  “You will back me fully tomorrow then, when I make a new treaty with Aesc?” Arthur held his breath, not daring to hope for an answer.

  “Aye.” Ambrosius raised his arms, let them fall. It does us no good to be at each other’s throats. There are enough bastards out there trying to do that for us.”

  Arthur’s elation lasted a few moments longer, then faded. Suspicious, he questioned, “What is in this for you? Why the change of heart?”

  At least Ambrosius had the decency to appear slightly embarrassed. “Two reasons.” He held up a finger. “One: you are to insist that Aesc allows the church at Durovernum to be rebuilt and that a priest is permitted to reside there.”

  “Canti Byrig they call it now,” Arthur corrected absently. “Two?”

  “You also become Christian.”

  Arthur roared with laughter. He bent forward, his hands on his thighs, guffawing, shaking his head. “Mithras’ Blood, Ambrosius, are you serious?” He glanced up, still laughing. “Gods, you are!”

  Ambrosius shrugged then smiled, the expression broadening into a grin. “No, but it was worth a try!” He clapped Arthur’s shoulder, again offered his hand, which Arthur took in new friendship and accepted partnership.

  A rustle of a woman’s skirts. Arthur spun around at the footfall behind him, a slave, timid, reluctant to speak. He beckoned her nearer, asked her business.

  “My Lady asks you to her chamber. She wishes to talk with you.”

  Arthur hesitated. He was in no mood for more of Winifred this night. He touched Ambrosius’s arm, said with a chuckle, “To you, Winifred may be a good woman; to me, she is a pain in the arse.” To his surprise, Ambrosius answered, “I meant she is good for the Church. Personally, she gives me constipation too.”

  Reluctant, Arthur began to follow the girl back to the Hall. As an afterthought, Ambrosius called after him, “I would ask, also, that you ensure the boy does not become King after you, Arthur.”

  “That is three things,” Arthur answered, his laughter booming into the crisp night air.

  XX

  Cerdic tugged at the sleeve of his new-found friend, whispered; “Vitolinus, are you asleep?”

  The other boy grunted, opened one eye. “I was. What is it?”

  They were curled together beneath a shared sleeping-fur in the far corner of the Hall, a warm niche where no draughts reached, Cerdic’s accustomed sleeping place. The younger boy pointed across the mounds of Winifred’s men, sleeping, snoring, a few clutching their women close. His finger was shaking. “He’s gone to my mother!”

  Vitolinus groaned, rolled over, pulling the fur closer about his ears. Already he was regretting becoming involved with this spoilt whelp. “Go to sleep.”

  Cerdic persisted, shaking the older boy. “Do you not hear me? Arthur is with my mother.”

  An uninterested murmur. “So what?”

  More agitated, Cerdic pulled the soft fur aside, Vitolinus sat up with a curse, his hand half raised to cuff the boy. “You little brat I’ll… ” but Cerdic caught his wrist. “Do you not understand? Arthur is alone with her.”

  Vitolinus snatched back the fur, began tucking it around himself again. “You were complaining he was not her true husband were you not? Well, now he is, so shut up and go to sleep.”

  Cerdic’s retort hissed sinisterly into the dim light of the Hall interior. “I am old enough to know why men lie with women. To get sons.”

  Vitolinus had lain down, but the words struck home. He sat up again, squinted at the shadows hiding the door that led from the Public Hall to Winifred’s private chambers. Sons. Ah. The last thing Vitolinus needed was yet another brat of Arthur’s. Cerdic and Llacheu were two too many already.

  He patted Cerdic’s shoulders in a fond, brotherly way. “Good point, lad. Come on.” He tossed the fur aside, began to step between the scatter of sleeping men, Cerdic following.

  “Where are we going?” The boy whispered, glancing anxiously over his shoulder at the closed door of his mother’s chamber.

  “For a piss, where do you think?” A malevolent grin crept across Vitolinus’s face. “And while we’re out there, we’ll see about interrupting the adding of one to the population.”

  XXI

  Arthur seated himself on a stool before a table covered with a fine embroidered cloth. On it, a comb, bronze mirror, an ash-wood box and a larger box of carved walrus ivory. To one side lay a leather-bound Bible. Winifred dismissed the slave, poured fresh wine into a silver goblet, handed it to him. It was good stuff, imported. She offered fruit, he declined.

  She was, Arthur noted with amusement, now clad in something nearer the form of dress he was more accustomed to her wearing. Gone was the plain black weave and veil, in their place a gown of the finest flame-coloured silk, the cut fashioned to cling to the ample contours of her body. Her hair, golden-fair as her mother’s had been, hung loose in rippling waves down her back. A delicate perfume wafted behind her as she moved. A holy woman of God? Arthur coughed to conceal laughter.

  Winifred seated herself on a second stool some distance from him, folded her hands into her lap.

  “You look as I so well remember you,” she said. “The years have been kind.”

  “Your memory must be at fault then,” he jibed dryly.

  He was watching her, Winifred noted, as a man looks at a woman he wants. “What is it Arthur, that makes women love you so?” She spoke with a soft sigh of regret and longing. “You are a thorough bastard.”

  He chucked. “Must be my natural charm.” He swilled his wine around in the goblet, aware he had already drunk too much this night. Even so, he did not refuse when she rose to pour him more.

  “Oh?” She placed her finger lightly under his chin. “You possess charm? I never knew.”

  With sudden movement, Arthur stood, seized her wrist, put his goblet on the table, took the wine jug from her and placed it there also. When he kissed her she responded, eager. His hand was going up her back, beneath the fall of hair to her neck.

  Winifred closed her eyes, let her head fall back, his touch sending sensations, all these years neglected, pulsing. Her words came on a whispered breath: “My Lord, love with me as we have before!”

  Arthur’s hand was caressing her throat, and then the fingers were clasping tighter, squeezing. Her eyes snapped open, her own hands clawing at his as she tried to breathe.

  “Love as we did before? I never loved you then, Winifred, I have no intention of starting now.” He shoved her from him, sending her reeling to the floor. Calmly, he retrieved his wine, sat, drinking it.

  Winifred scrambled to her feet, lunged, knocking the goblet from his hand and struck his cheek one sharp blow with her open palm, moved quickly back beyond his reach.

  “Ah, that is more the Winifred I recall.” Arthur brushed at the wine splashes on his tunic, amusement clinging obstinately to his expression. “You had me worried for a moment, I thought Ambrosius spoke right and you really had become a go
od, Christian woman.” He rubbed the sting of his cheek. “I see not.”

  “You are beneath contempt, Arthur Pendragon!”

  He stood, coming forward in one lithe movement, again catching hold of her.

  “I? Whoa, Winifred! Who is it who has fluttered her eyelashes, simpered and spoken of love this evening? What!” He moved slightly away from her, without releasing her. “You mean I have read you wrong? You were not intending to lure me into your bed?”

  She hissed, like a disturbed snake, “I would not have you in my bed were you the last man alive!”

  Arthur let her go, pushing her from him. He filled his goblet again, not caring that he was becoming drunk. “You always were a liar.” He swallowed a large mouthful of wine. “Now we have that little game put behind us, can we move on to business?”

  She was angry, he could see, by the pinch of her nostrils, the flutter of breath, but give her credit, was controlling it well. She had learnt something then, these years. For himself, despite the many misgivings, which on more than one occasion had almost turned him for home on the ride here, Arthur was enjoying himself. It was probably the effect of the wine.

  Leaning forward, resting his elbow on his knee, a wicked grin spread across his face. “I have not decided what it was that enticed me to agree to come here. But, since I am here, and your pathetic attempt at seduction has failed, what else have you in mind for me? Do you and Aesc plan to slaughter me like Hengest did the British at Council?”

  “Kill you?” She was brushing at her rumpled gown, patting her hair into place. “How I would dearly love to!” Regaining a hesitant composure Winifred seated herself. Devil take the man, how did he manage to raise her passions so easily – temper and desire?

  She forced a smile, breathed slowly and deeply. “I will see you dead one day, Arthur, but not yet, not until the time is right. I want you to live a few summers more.”

  Arthur sat back, lazily resting his arm on the table. “Naturally. Cerdic is not of an age to contest my title.”

  “His time will come. Cerdic will fight you.”

  “I look forward to the encounter.” Idly, he picked up the Bible lying on the table, the gospels written on parchment and carefully stitched together within a leather cover. He opened the delicate book and peered at the finely copied writing, his eyes swimming as the multitude of tiny words blurred. By the Bull, he was tired! Passionately Winifred exclaimed, “There does not have to be a fight!”

  Arthur shut the book. “You actually read this? Mithras, is it worth the strain to your sight?” Answering her, “Of course there does.”

  Winifred had seated herself, sitting straight-backed, poised and elegant. “Many of your chieftains are returning to how it was before Rome came. They are happy to renew the old laws, divide their land between sons so all take a share. Please,” Winifred stretched her hand out for the fragile book Arthur was toying with, “please, treat that with care, it is of great value.”

  Arthur peered at the thing he held, as if unaware how it had got there, tossed it, none too gently, back to the table. “Unfortunately,” he drawled – the wine really was too strong for this late hour – “the old system has its flaw of fratricide. Brothers are not always the best of friends.”

  “It works well enough for Cunedda’s brood in Gwynedd.”

  Arthur looked at her shrewdly. “You seem remarkably well informed of what is happening many miles beyond these boundaries. Cunedda’s brood is controlled by the strongest brother, Enniaun Girt. The grandsons may not be so,” he paused, reluctant to say the word loyal, said instead, with scorn, “brotherly.” He narrowed his eyes. “Cerdic wishes both myself and Llacheu dead.” Cynically, he added, “Someone must have planted and nurtured that idea for it to germinate and flourish so profusely.”

  Winifred laced the chain of her crucifix through her fingers. Her head was bowed and she spoke in what was barely a whisper, as if to speak the words aloud would bring reality to them. “It may be you or Llacheu to slay Cerdic.” She looked up, her face riddled with dread. A mother’s fear for her only son.

  Arthur had risen, was walking around the chamber touching various items. Winifred’s loom; sweet-smelling herbs drying in bunches; a wall-hanging. He remembered Winifred embroidering it, he had liked the thing, a vivid depiction of a boar hunt. She had, if he recalled, been making it for him. Odd how he remembered that.

  He studied the scene. A boar at bay, men triumphant in their chase. His thoughts went to Gwydre. The boy lying bloodied and dead. His voice choked as he said in a rare moment of letting down his guard, “I would not willingly kill a son of mine.”

  Winifred came quickly to his side, took Arthur’s hand lightly in her own. Guessed, rightly, at what was in his mind. “I grieved for your sons.”

  Arthur barked a disdainful laugh, retrieved his hand. “You? Grieved over Amr and Gwydre? Damn it, do you take me for the complete fool!”

  Her answer slapped unexpectedly. “I am a mother! The death of a son, any son, brings a sharing of grief between mothers who love and fear for their children.”

  Scornfully Arthur flung at her, “Even with Gwenhwyfar?”

  Compassionately Winifred replied, “For the loss of a son, aye, even with Gwenhwyfar.” Added with a rueful smile, “Though I admit to preferring her sons not to have been also yours.”

  Arthur stood uncomfortable at this revealing honesty in Winifred. Her scheming and deceptions he could handle, this opening of her heart was becoming unnerving. And she spoke the truth, he knew that, he could read it in her eyes. He ambled away, his back to her. “I did not come to this chamber for your pity.”

  He spun round, head raised like an alert stag as she next said, “You came because you fear the death of another son. What will you do, Pendragon, if Llacheu dies?”

  Arthur’s skin crawled. How had she known? On the few days it had taken to ride here, Arthur had repeatedly questioned himself as to why he was responding to the invitation to meet Aesc on Winifred’s land. It was a thing he had to do eventually, meet with Hengest’s successor, but not on Winifred’s steading. So why had he accepted? Curiosity? Boredom? Peace, apart from the rumblings from the north and Amlawdd’s constant growling, had settled like an enchanted pollen dust over Britain. Months had passed quietly, Briton and Saex alike content to battle against the vagaries of weather rather than one another.

  Winifred broke his thoughts, her hand on his arm, holding firm. “You may one day need Cerdic,” she purred. Quicker, her breath held, “Take him with you when you return to Caer Cadan. Let your two sons grow as brothers.”

  Arthur stared at her incredulously. Had he heard right? “You would trust me with him?”

  “He is your son.”

  “He is of Saex blood. His grandmother was daughter to Hengest, his mother’s uncle now rules the Cantii territory.” Arthur swept her hold from his arm, not liking the suggestion. Disliking more the damned bloody sense of it. “When he is grown, Cerdic can lay claim to powerful allies. For those reasons it would suit me to have him out of the way.”

  Winifred had heard all the rumours. Did not think Arthur was capable of deliberately drowning his son. “You would not murder one of your own.” She said emphatically, believing it.

  “Do not count on that! Were there just cause, I would slice my sword through your son’s neck.” Arthur was equally emphatic.

  “Arthur,” excited, she took his hands within her own, “instead of fighting one another our sons could fight together! Think on it! What allies they could become!”

  It was tempting, too bloody tempting. The instincts of a seasoned soldier were buffeting Arthur like storm waves on the shore; he could smell danger as strong as the pungent odour of that smoking candle in the corner of the chamber. Winifred would not willingly give up her son, not into his – or, more potent – Gwenhwyfar’s care.

  Her next words ran chill down his spine. “If you do not take him, Arthur, then I shall send him with Aesc. It is your choice as to who brings m
y son to manhood. You, or,” she laughed maliciously, “the Saex.”

  Then he saw the reason behind all this. To take the title Pendragon, Cerdic needed to be taught how to fight, how to use sword and shield – and how to lead men. He could not learn that from his mother, or even a sword-master. He needed to be with a king – needed to be with his father. Arthur twisted a derisive, mocking grin, stepped away from her, lifted his wine and drained the goblet. He went to the far door, the one that would open out into the night air. “Very well, Cerdic returns with me.” He saw her smiled relief, saw it fade as he added, “I have been asked by Ambrosius to turn to this Christian God of yours. If I were to follow his advice, I would need to pay atonement for my sins. I’ll build a monastery near Caer Cadan and offer my son to His service.”

  Her hand had gone to her throat, colour draining from her face. “The idea serves well to keep Vitolinus from learning how to use his manhood. It will be the same for Cerdic.”

  Before he stepped into the shrouding darkness, he finished with a threat. “And if you send Cerdic to Aesc, I will release Vitolinus. He has more claim to the Saex kingdom than your brat. Think on it.”

  Arthur stamped directly across the horse paddock to where his men had made camp, half mindful that someone else might accost him before he had a chance to join them and sleep this night. The horses were restless, snorting, ears back, but Arthur was angry with Winifred, tired, and had drunk more than enough. That sputtering candle in Winifred’s room had cast a stronger reek of smoke than he realised, for he could smell it on his cloak. He stopped abruptly, head up, scenting the frosted air. It was smoke he could smell, but not from a candle… Mithras’ love! The barn was on fire!

  XXII

  Onager was inside that barn. Mean he might be, but he was a good war-horse and Arthur, and the men of the Artoriani, relied on their horses, regarded them almost as family. Running for the nearest door, Arthur was bellowing, yelling the word, “Fire! Fire!” His own men were rousing first, being the nearest, but the Hall doors were opening, the night-watch peering out at the sudden commotion.