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Page 43
Laughing, she pushed him away, wiped at her wet face. “Da then, can have the training of him! The dog is soft in the brain!” They laughed together, mother and son, sharing the friendship of their dogs and the pleasure of each other’s company.
She had not answered the question, and as their amusement faded, Llacheu repeated, “Well, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Cerdic.”
Gwenhwyfar sat back on her heels, her lower lip pouting as she considered an answer. The dog seized the opportunity to wriggle away and lay down next to Llacheu’s dog, Blaidd, yawning, his mouth a gaping chasm of white teeth and pink tongue.
She answered with the truth. “Cerdic will want to be called Pendragon, aye. His mother is teaching him to expect it.”
Llacheu held the spear shaft before him, squinting along its length. It was a good shaft, would serve well. He nodded to himself in satisfaction, set it aside and stood up, stretching. He was not yet growing into his height, though it would come within the next few years. His child’s body was slender, with firm, maturing muscles, his hair, a light brown, cascading to his collar in an unruly mop, never tidy. And his eyes were Arthur’s eyes, expressive, able to reflect laughter or anger; as thick lashed, as deep and dark. He finished his stretch, enjoying the pull of cramped muscles along his neck and back.
“Then he will have to fight me for it. I am not afraid of Cerdic.”
Aye, so much like Arthur!
“Then you ought to be.” Gwenhwyfar’s reply was matter of fact. “Your father fears what he may become.”
Llacheu snorted disbelief. “A boy brought up by a woman on a farmsteading? What will he know of war and fighting?”
“A boy whose father is King of all Britain, whose uncle is Aesc of the Cantii, whose grandsire was the Saxon Hengest. Do I add to the list?” Gwenhwyfar had risen to her feet stood before her son, her hands going to his shoulders, giving them a little shake as she spoke. “He may not stay with his mother. What if she sends him to live with his uncle? Have you considered that?”
The boy’s answer was pert, combined with a shake of his head. “Father would never allow it.”
“Your father might not be able to stop it.”
Llacheu shrugged, and bent to retrieve the spear shaft from the floor where he had laid it. He did not fully understand this intense animosity between his mother and that other woman who had once been his father’s wife. He, Llacheu, was Arthur’s first-born, legitimate son, so why all this fuss about poxed Cerdic? Except, he understood one thing. He wanted to follow his father and be the next Pendragon – very, very much. And if Cerdic had that same wanting, then there would indeed be a fight for possession of the Dragon.
“I will have the Artoriani behind me?” Llacheu asked, half turning to look at his mother, a slight rise in his voice with the question. He wanted his father’s torque and banner, but there was a hard part; he would only get them when his father was dead. And beyond anything – beyond everything – Llacheu did not want his father dead!
Gwenhwyfar must have caught the pain of his expression for she held out her arms to the lad, a sudden fear pricking that he was, perhaps, too old now to respond to a mother’s hug. But Llacheu grinned and flung his arms around her broadening waist, snuggling his head into the bulge that was the new baby growing within her.
“The Artoriani will follow Arthur’s son to beyond the sea’s edge,” she said, stroking his unruly hair into a semblance of order. “But only if that son is worthy for the following. And you,” she ruffled his hair back into its customary untidiness, “will be more than worthy.”
The lamps would need trimming, several were smoking. Darkness was thickening outside. Llacheu stretched up to place a light kiss on her cheek. “Poor Cerdic. I almost feel sorry for him.”
The baby was uncomfortable, for all it was only four months within her, and perhaps with a little too much irritability Gwenhwyfar answered, “Do not waste your sorrow. He is not deserving of it.”
Whistling to the dogs, who instantly came alert from sleep, Llacheu made for the door to walk them before he made for his bed. His mother was often short-tempered these days; he had asked Enid about it, and received a pert answer. “You’d be bad-tempered if you had to carry a damn great lump about for nine months!” He threw a quick grin at Gwenhwyfar. “Cerdic, I think, must be as disagreeable as his bloody bitch of a mother.” He ducked out before she could make an answer.
Gwenhwyfar smiled and settled herself before the fire, her feet tucked under her skirts. She sat for a while, enjoying the comfort of this, her home, letting the warmth flush her cheeks red, letting her mind wander. Within the passing of a few years, Llacheu would become a man. An idle, passing, thought: would he break as many hearts as had his father? Gwenhwyfar sighed. Her son ought to have brothers beside him, loyal brothers. She prayed often, to both the Virgin Christian Mary and the Old Goddess. Prayed she carried a boy, a new brother for Llacheu.
The fire crackled, Gwenhwyfar yawned. She had a headache coming on. Too much sitting about, not enough walking; ah, but she was so tired! She ought to think about going to bed, yet she did not welcome it for the bed gave little comfort, despite its new goose-feather mattress, fine linen sheets and covering furs. A bed was such a lonely place when your man was not there to share it. She got to her feet, winced and stamped her numbed foot as a rush of blood sent her toes tingling. Hopping to the bed, she sat on its edge, rubbing vigorously at the needle-sharp prickling.
The sound of boots approaching outside made her lift her head. Knuckles rapped on the door, a man cleared his throat nervously. Gwenhwyfar groaned. Now what? Wearily, she went to open the door.
The man who stood there held his woollen cap sheepishly in his hands, twisting it around and around, a faint, tentative smile on his face.
Uncertain, for the light was poor, she questioned, “Ider?”
Eagerly, the young man nodded, the smile becoming bolder.
“It is Ider! You are returned! And are you well?” Pleased, Gwenhwyfar held her hands to him as she gabbled the questions, drew him inward, into the light of lamp and fire, standing him within the threshold of her chamber. He reddened, embarrassed at her enthusiasm and affectionate greeting. He had half expected to be turned away, told to go straight back to barracks.
“You look splendid,” she appraised, her tiredness forgotten as she circled around him, noting he was thinner but his skin was sun-browned, his eyes bright-dancing. Again she took up his hands, turning them over, inspecting the healthy pink colour beneath the nails, the pad of firm flesh to the palm. “Your wounds are healed? You are allowed back to us?” The questions came in a rush.
He managed to stammer answers, and then there was a slither of paws on the steps beyond the door and the swirl of the two dogs entering, seemingly a whole pack by the extent of the barking and wagging of tails. Llacheu was there and hugging his good friend Ider, asking the same questions as his mother, pulling the man further in; and the door was shut, a stool found. His cloak and the saddlebag were taken, laid in a corner; a tankard of ale was pressed into his hand, the wild exchange of laughter and chatter tumbling in a rush of shared excitement. Enid was called, asked to fetch more wine and bring food.
Ider drank his ale and answered the questions fired at him as best he could. Aye, his wounds were healed, and aye, the medics at Aquae Sulis had at last passed him fit, but no, he had not enjoyed his time there. “Jesu,” he complained, “the women are as prim as a duck’s arse!” He drank thirstily, wiped ale from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Even the ale there tastes as bad as that muck they call healing water. It tasted more like boar’s piss to me!”
The two dogs were nosing at his leather bag. Llacheu absently called them away, returned to the urgent questioning, but the dogs ignored him. Blaidd pawed at the bag, whimpering. Suddenly there was a shrill yowl and the dog leapt backward yelping, the other dog, Cadarn, began barking. Gwenhwyfar, Ider and Llacheu sprang to their feet.
The leather bag had tumbled to the floor, tangled with Ider’s cloak. Gwenhwyfar, at his other side, grabbed his arm, pointed at it. “Mithras! The thing’s moving!”
Ider grinned, lifted the bag and cloak, advised Llacheu to put the dogs through into the main Hall a while. They objected, but at the boy’s firm insistence, out they went. Loosening the cords that held the bag closed Ider put his hand inside and withdrew a ball of tabby, spiky fur with two black-tipped ears flattened above frightened round eyes. The tiny creature opened its mouth, and issued a plaintive, wailing, meow.
Gwenhwyfar laughed, clapping her hands, delighted. “Oh, the dear thing!”
Grinning, Ider handed her the kitten. He grimly surveyed the several red scratch marks along the back of his hand. Dear was not a description he would have used.
Gwenhwyfar fondled the animal, admiring its softness, its perfect markings, let Llacheu have his turn at cuddling it. “Where did it come from?” she asked. They had no cats at Caer Cadan for they used weasels to keep down the mice and rats in the granary stores.
“Two days back, I stopped a night at a farmsteading. The kitten’s mother had died and the woman of the house couldn’t be bothered with the litter. She’d already killed the others.” Ider shrugged, non-committal. “It seemed a shame not to let such a tiny thing have a decent chance at life, just for the sake of dripping some milk down its throat.”
Llacheu had set the kitten on the floor. Gwenhwyfar squatted and flicked her fingers, the kitten pounced. They all laughed.
“It’s not that young, it’ll soon be fully independent,” Llacheu observed. He took some meat off the dishes on the table, held it to the kitten who took it and chewed ravenously, spitting and hissing prolifically at Llacheu when he came too close. They laughed again.
“She’ll make a fine hunter,” Ider observed.
And then they were talking again, Gwenhwyfar motioning Ider to the stool, she herself taking the comfortable chair. Llacheu was playing with the kitten, dragging a length of thin-twined rope around the floor, the cat leaping and pouncing and growling. Ider told them of his wound and his healing, of the scar that swept through his waist where the spear had pierced him, nearly ending his life. With the thirst all boys have for such things, Llacheu forgot the kitten, which instantly flopped to the floor and fell asleep, and asked to see the scar. Ider stood, removed his tunic and undershirt to show them.
The door opened, whirling in a squall of sudden falling rain and a gusting of wind that sent the lamp and hearth-fire flames leaping in a frenzy of sparks and flared light. His cloak billowing, Arthur stepped into the room, his boots rapping on the wooden floor, hearing chatter and laughter, seeing, in that first, flurried instant of his unexpected entrance, his wife kneeling before a man who was stripped naked to the waist and who stood near enough to the bed as not to matter.
XXVI
Arthur was undressing, preparing for bed. He had come across his wife, seemingly, in that first hasty moment, alone with a half-naked man. He had leapt to a wrong conclusion, and now felt foolish. That made him irritable. Gwenhwyfar was already abed, nestled under the furs. The kitten sat on top of her batting and nibbling at her playing fingers. She had tried conversation, Arthur’s only answers grunts and mumbles, and so had given up, occupied herself with the kitten instead. Hiding her hurt. He knew she was angry with him, and embarrassed at his misjudged reaction, but the thing was done, committed.
He had his tunic off, his boots, stood clad only in his leather bracae. “All right,” he said, not quite as calm and collected as he had intended; he took a breath, tried again, “I jumped to conclusions. I was wrong, I saw what I thought I saw, not what I was seeing. Throwing Ider out onto his arse was a stupid, arrogant and jealous act, and I shall apologise to him in the morning – but damn it, Cymraes, what was I supposed to think?” He turned to look at her, his arms spread, helpless, vulnerable. It was the only apology she was going to get, and if she didn’t like it then she could go to Hell. He would not beg for her forgiveness.
“That’s the point Arthur, you did not think, you assumed.” Gwenhwyfar lifted the kitten and put it to the floor where it scampered a few feet then squatted, puddling among the spread bracken. It scratched at the dried stuff, then, leaping into the air, bounded sideways across the room like a scuttling crab, stiff-legged and tail as vertical as a banner’s shaft.
No, he had not thought. He had acted in a blind sudden-come rage of jealousy, hurling Ider from the room by the scruff of his neck along with a torrent of abuse. Arthur sucked his lower lip, unlaced his bracae and stepped out of them. It was only after, as he had slammed the door and turned to bellow at his wife, he had seen Llacheu kneeling beside her and Enid standing behind. He shrugged his left shoulder, lifted his hands again, his apology sincere. “I was a bit… ” he searched for a fitting word, tried a tentative grin, “hasty?”
“You were a damn fool.” She was laughing, for all that her expression indicated cross indignation and the inflection in her voice seemed harsh. Behind the pretence, the laughter was there.
“Mithras, bloody hell!” Arthur leapt into the air, skittering a dance of pain and surprise; the kitten had jumped to his thigh and was clinging to the flesh. Wincing and cursing, Arthur picked it off, unhooking each claw from his skin, and dropped it to the floor where it promptly sat down and scratched industriously behind its ear. “Gods damn the little sod!”
Gwenhwyfar was laughing outright now, her arm clutching at her stomach, pointing with her other hand at Arthur’s predicament. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, wiping at the tears, trying to control her amusement but laughing all the louder.
Growling, Arthur crossed to the bed, aiming a kick at the cat as he passed, earning a batted paw and scratched toe for the trouble. It did nothing to ease his wife’s crowing.
Beyond the chamber, the trumpets blared to signal the change of the Watch. The gates had been shut and barred – anyone still down in the tavern would be locked out for the night with a charge to face come morning. Latrine duty was the usual punishment. Few men missed the closing of those gates at the second Watch.
Gwenhwyfar snuggled into Arthur’s warmth, her mind drifting into the comfortable, drowsy place that lingered between awake and asleep. He shifted his arm around her, laid his face against her hair.
“Hello, wife.”
“Hello, fool.”
Arthur grunted, hugged her body closer.
“How was the bitch Winifred then?” Gwenhwyfar asked, her eyes closed, the daze of drowsing not quite at the edge of bringing full sleep. “Haggard and shrivelled? As sour-mouthed as ever?”
“She tried to seduce me.”
It was Gwenhwyfar’s turn to snort. She moved into a more comfortable position, her arm going around her husband, liking the feel of his skin, even with its patterning of various scars. “That is one woman I do not fear competition from!”
Arthur kissed the top of her head, said, “She remains handsome.” His wife’s only response was a derogatory noise. She nestled her head deeper into his shoulder, did not ask of Cerdic.
Distant noises from beyond the walls filtered through into the chamber; the sound of the men coming off Watch going to their beds, an owl flying low over the Caer calling to its mate. A dog barking, answered by another, and a man’s gruff voice shouting at the curs to be quiet. The normal sounds of night and a place preparing to sleep.
Inside, the fire crackled as a log shifted; the timbers of the roof beams creaked as they too settled. The bracken rustled with a slight sound, a small creature scuttled from the shadows, sniffed at a dropped piece of bread that the dogs had missed. There was sufficient lamplight for Arthur to watch the mouse as it squatted, nibbling at the prize held between its forepaws. The kitten too, watched, mesmerised. She stared, wide-eyed, quite still. The mouse must have
scented her, for it ceased eating, froze a moment then panicked, spinning around and whisking back into its hole with a cheeky flick of its long tail. The kitten arched its back, the fur standing up in spiky tufts, spat and then fled into the shadows running along the far walls.
Arthur slid lower into the bed, wriggling his toes into the luxury of warmth. “Damn useful cat that one will be. It’s afraid of mice!”
Gwenhwyfar laughed, and then, as the last lamp flickered out, said into the fire-glow, “I missed you.”
Arthur kissed her then showed how much he had missed her, expressing with his body why he had acted the jealous fool. She was his woman, and he loved her.
February 466
XXVII
Clouds like flying mares’ tails patterned a sky that was the blue of a kingfisher’s feather. A playful wind lifted Gwenhwyfar’s cloak as she trudged, breathless, up the rising ground towards the Hall. The doors stood open, pushed wide back to clear the fug of hearth smoke, spilled beer and stale air, but she walked along the outer daub-covered wattle wall, down to the far end and stepped through the similarly open door of the private chamber at the rear. Inside, she spread her arms wide and dropped the heavy weight of firewood. With her bulk of pregnancy it was easier to drop the load than add the logs one by one to the heap. Enid entered, carrying water for the cooking pot.
“You ought not carry heavy things,” she chided, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “You have servants to do such tasks.”
“The wood needed replenishing.” Gwenhwyfar’s answer was mildly irritable as she eased the ache in her back. Only a few weeks more and the babe would be born, thank the gods!
“It’s a waste, you having servants.” Enid sniffed her sarcasm. “Might as well be rid of us.” She was a good woman, caring for Gwenhwyfar and Llacheu, but inclined to fuss. Gwenhwyfar gave her an affectionate, patient hug. Enid, for all her servant’s chiding, was a woman worth her weight in gold.