Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  For his part, Arthur believed her. There seemed no reason not to. He was about to make an answer, but Morgaine raised her hand, silencing him, her head up, alert. There! Again! A sound from outside; Arthur heard it too. He was on his feet, drawing his sword, which left the sheep-skin lined scabbard with the gentle breath of a whisper, the naked blade shimmering in the danced flicker of fire-light. The latch was lifting, slowly, the door coming open, a rattle of entering wind slithering through the gap, harrying the flames into a higher, more frenzied dance. Arthur was behind the door, breath held, sword ready, and as the person out in the night stepped into the room, he moved with the precise ease of a soldier, one arm going around the waist, the other holding the bright sharpened sword-edge at her throat. With a sneer and a snort of contempt, Arthur thrust the woman forward, away from him, slamming the door, shut with the heel of his boot. The woman stumbled to her knees, his sword pricked in the small of her back.

  “Well, well, what interesting visitors you have, Morgaine.” He lowered the sword, squatted before the fire.

  The woman, forcing a smile, dusted down her skirts, clambered to her feet. “Hello, Arthur, what do you here?” Her eyes flickered to Morgaine, sitting quite still on the far side of the hearth, took in her pregnancy and said with contempt, “I would assume you to be whoring, except it seems that is an old tale.”

  “Ah.” Arthur’s half-smile, through his expression of one eyebrow raised, the other eye half shut, was sardonic. “But then, you know all there is to know about whoring, don’t you, Brigid?”

  Brigid swung her cloak from her shoulders, hung it from a nail on the wall, pulled a stool from beneath the only small table and sat before the fire holding her hands to the warmth. She seemed at ease in this place, at home, knowing where things were kept, the layout of the hut.

  “We were wondering,” she said, helping herself to a bowl of stew, “what had become of you, Morgaine.” Her eyes bore into the other, younger woman. “Your mother is most concerned for your welfare.”

  With his weight on his heels, the sword resting across his knees in the time-old way of a soldier seemingly at ease but ready for the slightest movement, Arthur regarded Brigid, the whore of Amlawdd’s settlement, his paid spy. And, seemingly, someone else’s.

  He had not noticed the crow-foot wrinkles at her eyes before, the taut line to her mouth. Or the hardness behind those eyes. He glanced casually at Morgaine, needed no intense studying to see she was afraid; realised, as he had not seen before, that she was not long from childhood. Realised something else simultaneously, two things that thumped into him as if an axe had split into his head sending his senses reeling, heart racing and muscles tightening. The hair on his neck, he could feel, was rising, sweat trickled down his back beneath his linen under-tunic. Careful! Do not let the thoughts touch the face! Impassive, he shifted weight slightly, cradling the sheen of his sword into his arms. Took a wild guess. “So you spy for Morgause then, my pretty whore.”

  Thinking he meant herself, Morgaine dipped her head, her teeth biting into her lip, her hands, clasped in her lap, clenching tighter. What was she if not a whore and an evil utensil of Morgause’s? He would never believe her if she were to protest, were to say she had not told her mother of… of what? Of how she had used her body to tempt him? How she had encouraged him to lie with her? Get her with child, as her mother had instructed her to do?

  Brigid, tossing her head higher, brandishing her arrogance, knew the Pendragon was talking to her not that snivelling wretch seated opposite. Light of the Moon, the Lady should have exposed the useless brat at birth! “I serve myself.”

  “You serve me. I pay you.” Arthur looked with slit eyes, spoke neutrally, almost flippant. Dangerously.

  Contempt seethed from Brigid as she regarded him back. “You receive your worth!”

  His answer was soft spoken, menacing. “Na, my pretty one, a whore is never valued for worth, only results.”

  A slight rise of doubt wavered Brigid’s poise. She had come to Yns Witrin to find what foolishness Morgaine was playing at. No messages of importance had passed through her these last few months, nothing beyond what naturally sailed on the wind. That she was hiding something had become obvious as autumn faded into winter. Morgause had sent instructions, through a much-risked route, to find out what and why. The pregnancy was an explanation, perhaps half expected, but not Arthur, here, taking his leisure at the fool child’s hearth. And how much leisure had he taken? Nine months of it? “Morgause will not be pleased that you have been tumbling her daughter.” She meant it to hurt, to be mocking, spiteful, but Arthur only laughed, hiding well the turmoil he felt at her words.

  “You do not share your mistress’s serving of the Goddess then? It seems I know more of her laws than you do.” It was those laws that had made him believe Morgaine when she said the child was his. The chosen Lady must give herself, for her first time, to a king. The Goddess made mortal, to bear a child for the replenishment of the earth. Morgaine was too timid, too much the innocent, to go against the rules. Only the child of a king would bring the blessing of the Goddess. The child was his, as much as Morgaine was Morgause’s daughter. Inside, he was seething with anger at these damned women, and at himself for walking blind-eyed into Morgause’s snare. Why had he not seen the obvious? The eyes, the face, even the voice were Morgause!

  Brigid controlled her annoyance. It had shaken her to find Arthur here, to know that everything was ruined, ended. Her mind had been racing as to how she could warn Morgause that the networked chain of messengers and spies were severed at the most important end. But then, did it matter? Outside this one thing, they were not needed, not now. “Your wife,” she sniped, “will no doubt be interested to hear that for the King, the Old Ways are not finished with.”

  “My wife,” Arthur answered, “will not know of it.” A third guess, unrealised until this moment, found the reason behind the trap that he had so obligingly walked into. How Morgause would crow that he, Arthur, had sired a child by her daughter, a priestess of the Goddess. Mithras’ blood, and until now he had thought the Church’s view of him unreasonable? Ambrosius himself would string him up by the balls were this ever to get out!

  Brigid laughed. “Our proud King! How they will mock you in the north, when they hear how you so honour the Lady you keep prisoner! When they hear how you placed your seed in her chosen vessel! How you give them a son to become their Warlord and King, the grandson of the Goddess on Earth!” She was jangling laughter, rocking back and forth on her stool, appreciating the jest, the irony. The laughter ceased abruptly as she felt the cold bite of a dagger on her throat.

  Morgaine stood before her, her lip snarling, both hands clasped about the weapon, anger shaking the rigid hold.

  “You make it sound as though my child was created for something sordid and evil! That is not the way of the Goddess. She is of understanding and love, of life and beauty. A harsh mistress at times, for where life is given it must also be taken. But she would not inflict pain for the amusement of it. Morgause is not of the Goddess, or if she is, then no longer am I.” Her eyes were wide with a madness that had suddenly come upon her, a shrieking, releasing surge of at last seeing the path that would take her away from these long years of despair. “My bitch mother will not hear of my borne child. No one, aside myself and its father, will know.” And she drove the dagger home, pushing her weight behind the blade, thrusting it in up to the hilt, the sharpened metal spurting through sinew and blood, choking off Brigid’s scream as it cut through the vocal cords, through the spine and out through her neck.

  Dawn. The stirring of a new day touched the night sky behind the Tor, fingering spreading tendrils of delicate pink and pale, creeping yellow. Arthur had taken Brigid’s body to the lake, pushing the black-haired woman into the soft mud at the edge, weighting the carcass with rocks. Then he had talked with Morgaine a while, conversation and idle chatter to ease the shaking reaction from her – never easy the first time of killing. She had slep
t for the last few hours of darkness, her body curled against him, her head on his shoulder. Arthur had sat, awake, the touch of his naked sword against his thigh, ready should anyone else come. With the dawn, he had to go. He ought not to have lingered, could not afford to stay longer. She stirred, woke, puff-eyed, blotchy-skinned, still frightened. Before leaving he kissed her, as a friend would give a parting kiss, and handed her a battered gold ring from his smallest finger. It was given me by my father,” he explained. “It is most precious to me.” He paused, uncertain what more to say, whether indeed he should say more.

  “If the child lives, if it is as boy…” he spoke hesitantly, reluctant, “there may be a time when those who need to know will recognise that ring, and through it, know him to be a son of mine.” And he was gone, out into the paling sky, through the trees, up onto his horse and away at a canter.

  Morgaine watched him go, her hand resting on the bulge that was his child. He had asked, as they had talked, if she knew who had sired her. When she answered that she did not know, he had shrugged, said perhaps her mother had not known. But Morgaine had shaken her head, told him, “She knew him. When I was a child, she would taunt me, tell me it was as well he had not known of me. I grew to know my father would be ashamed of me.”

  “How old are you, Morgaine?”

  “Five and ten. My birthing day was the day of the Roman new year.”

  He had not spoken for a long while after that, and then she had slept, and dawn had come, and here she was watching him ride away. The tears came to her eyes, for she knew he would not come back.

  She stepped from the hut and made her way along the hidden paths running across the lake and through the water-meadows. The birds that had risen at Arthur’s going renewed the protesting at this second disturbance, but she ignored them, walked purposefully with a sudden-come strength of courage to the muddied track that led from the pagan place of Yns Witrin to the calm comfort of the Holy Sisters. She would not birth her child for the Goddess, for Morgause. This was Arthur’s child, and he or she belonged in the new, Christian world. She took nothing with her, not even a cloak, for she wanted nothing from her miserable, despairing life. Arthur had given her a new hope, a new way, and she had to seize this one chance of following it. For the sake of the child, she had to.

  As Arthur rode home, following the threaded ways of higher ground and the tracks through the marsh, he did not look back. He would not go again to the Tor. It held for him nothing save the memory of a misshapen child given back from whence it came, and a menacing, dark-tainted horror so great that he had at first tried to push it aside and bury it. But a thought, once sown, takes root; especially when it shouts the truth.

  Five and ten, Morgaine had said. Five and ten years past, Arthur had been a boy on the brink of manhood, a boy who thought himself to be a bastard, born of a serving girl. Five and ten years past, Uthr, the Pendragon had been slain by the old King Vortigern and Arthur had been revealed not as a serving girl’s brat but as Uthr’s true and only son. Five and ten years past, Morgause had still been mistress to the great Uthr. She had not known then that he was Arthur’s father.

  But would have known it as she birthed a girl-child. Would have known it when she instructed that girl-child to ensure she showed herself to the new Pendragon. Knowing that once seen, the urge of lust would, eventually, lead him to his own half-sister’s bed.

  March 466

  XXIX

  Gweir ducked quickly through the door into his lord’s chamber. “Sir, there is a woman demanding to see you.”

  Arthur did not answer, for he had his eyes closed while Gwenhwyfar, laughing, poured a jug of hot water over his head. He was taking a bath in the relative warmth of their own chamber; it was not suitable to build a complex bath-house here at Caer Cadan and the weather did not lend itself to bathing naked in the winter-cold river. Most of the men went dirty, but for themselves Gwenhwyfar insisted on regular bathing. She and Llacheu had taken their turn in the round, wooden tub and now it was Arthur’s. He wiped at his face with the linen towel Gwenhwyfar passed him. “Who? What woman?” He stood, water dripping from his wet, glistening body. A dozen possibilities skittered through his mind – not one of them the name Gweir announced as he flicked an embarrassed glance at his mistress.

  “She gives herself the title Lady Pendragon.”

  “Love of Mithras!”

  “What?” Arthur and Gwenhwyfar exclaimed together, she, wearing only a thin under-tunic, poised with a second towel about to rub dry her hair, he, standing naked in the tub of water.

  The door banged open letting in a stream of blasting cold wind and rain and a woman swathed in a wolf-skin cloak, dressed in the black garb of a Christian.

  “God’s death, you wretched, heathen boy! Dare you leave me standing out in the rain!” Winifred stopped, stood staring at the scene before her.

  The silence was embarrassingly long. Arthur made the first move by draping the linen around himself and stepping from the tub. “I normally receive guests in the public surroundings of my Hall, not unannounced in the privacy of my chamber.” He indicated a second door with his hand. “Happen you would grant the courtesy of waiting for me there?”

  Winifred recovered herself, the red flush to her face receding, but her heart was bumping. It had been a long time since she had seen a man naked, a long time since she had seen Arthur so. His body, despite the harsh marking of scars, was as desirable as that first time when she had slid quietly, uninvited and unexpected, into his bed.

  She crossed herself against the sin of a rush of erotic feelings, stepped with dignity past Gwenhwyfar, whose lips were pressed tight with anger, to the inner door that Gweir had run to open. On the threshold she reconsidered, turned back to look at Arthur. “What I have to say is most urgent, my Lord. I have ridden personally to tell you I have received word of Hueil. He is on the move, marching south.”

  “What?” Arthur was across the room in three strides, the cloth slipping, forgotten, from his body. “How do you know this?”

  “We have heard nothing!” Gwenhwyfar cast a worried glance at her husband who, slamming the door closed, was urgently drawing his first wife back into the privacy of the chamber. “Why have we not heard?”

  Arthur waved her to silence, seated Winifred on a stool, began searching for his clothes and dressing, modesty irrelevant. “Tell me, and tell me quickly woman,” he snapped at Winifred. To Gwier, said, ”Fetch wine!” And to Gwenhwyfar, tossing her a gown, “Get dressed.”

  Winifred, perversely refusing to hurry, unbuckled the fastening of her heavy, wet cloak, handed it to the servant boy, smoothed her gown, patted her hair straight. “I heard because sail with a good following wind travels faster than a horse.” She raised a chiding finger at Arthur. “You ought to instruct your spies to use ships, as I do.”

  “Get on with it,” Arthur snarled.

  Unruffled, Winifred answered, “The Saxon, Leofric, brought word to me. He had been,” she paused, “trading, in the north.” Pirating off the coast of Dalriada, but she was not going to admit that. “He saw the war-host leaving Alclud. Hueil may be down as far as Caer Luel by now.”

  Arthur swore, began searching among a tangle of linen for his sword and scabbard. Gwenhwyfar, fastening one shoulder of her gown, the brooch for the other between her teeth, grunted at him, nodded towards his riding cloak. “Under there,” she said, removing the brooch, pinning the second fastening. Arthur kicked the garment aside, buckled his sword about his waist.

  What a flurry of disorganisation – Winifred was enjoying this. She had never in her life ridden so far or so fast, thrashing her horse into a gallop for most of the way, determined to reach Arthur and alert him personally. Why? She did not know why. Leofric had laughed at her panic, saying Arthur would soon find out for himself; the officer of her bodyguard had begged her to stay in her steading, to send servants with the message instead, but no, she had wanted to do this thing, take urgent word to her ex-husband. Why? Because she had some
vague hope that the Pendragon would reward her? Grant her what she desired for her son? Possibly, probably. She had not stopped to think, had ordered horses saddled and ridden fast. Now here she was, sitting in Arthur’s private chamber and for once, happen the only time in her life, he was treating her with respect.

  He was at the outer door, yelling for the officers of the Artoriani to assemble immediately in the Hall. He swung back to lift his cloak from the floor, crossed to Gwenhwyfar and kissed her quickly on the cheek, saying, “At last, Cymraes, the waiting is over.” He was like a young boy, the excitement and anticipation bubbling from him like winter-melt from the hillside. In his enthusiasm he crossed to Winifred, took her shoulders in his hands and kissed her cheek also, then he was heading for the inner door.

  Glowing with pleasure, Winifred tipped her head to one side, asked as he was about to disappear into the Hall. “Have I then, done well, my Lord?”

  “Aye,” Arthur grinned at her, “very well.” He was gone, shouting orders, his voice ringing back through the closed door.

  Winifred was left alone in the room with Gwenhwyfar, the first time they had met for, oh, God knew how many years.

  Piling her hair into some form of order, pinning it as best she could, Gwenhwyfar looked at the other woman, her eyes narrow, suspecting. She took the last hairpin from between her lips, stated, “Whatever you have come for,” she warned venomously, “you will not be getting it.”

  Folding her hands into her lap Winifred smiled in the sickly unpleasantly sweet way Gwenhwyfar remembered so well and said; “Do you not think so? I believe I nearly have it.”