“He must have a name,” Arthur declared, touching the softness of his son’s cheek with a loving finger.
“That he must. A name fitting for a prince and heir to the Pendragon.”
Arthur glanced at Gwenhwyfar. She looked tired. Her hair tumbled loose, uncombed and free, as he liked it best. His son’s hair was dark.
“I was thinking of Llacheu,” he offered.
Gwenhwyfar rolled the name round in her mind. “Tis a fine name, a British name for a British prince.” Teasing, “You have dwelt some time on it?”
Arthur crimsoned, admitted, “Aye.” He leant forward, awkward with the child in his arms, to kiss her cheek.
Gwenhwyfar pointed to the reed-woven cradle. “He shall be safe in there.”
Carefully, mindful of the head, Arthur lowered his son and covered him with the blanket, tucking it firm around the tiny body. He sat silent for a while, unable to take his gaze from the sleeping child. It was a beautiful thing, new life, especially when the new life was your son.
“Ah, Cymraes, I have been a stupid ass. These past hours I have sat alone with my sins, convincing myself everything that could go wrong with the birth would do so.” He bowed his head. “I thought I was to lose you and I would forever live with the knowledge we had parted with sour words, as enemies.”
Gwenhwyfar, throat tight, held out her arms to him, cradled her husband as lovingly as she had held the child. “I could never be your enemy. I dislike your ideas sometimes, but beyond that I love you.” She sought for a way to explain it. “My love for you is like the full moon, sailing high and clear and bright. Only, occasionally a cloud drifts across hiding her from sight. We cannot see her, all light has gone, yet we know for certain she is still there, waiting for the wind to blow the cloud away. My love for you is like that – always there but sometimes hidden. Do not dwell on words spoken in anger.” She laughed. “Most women hate their menfolk during labour.”
His arms tightened about her waist, clinging urgently. He held her, his head buried against her full breasts. Already a scent of baby clung to her. “I was afraid. Of what, I am not certain – anything and everything. Afraid of losing you, afraid of not having your love.” He sat up and took her face between his hands, searching her eyes, a soft, muted green, that reflected their love and happiness.
“I use women – as you said. I have twisted myself into the habit of taking what I want before they take from me. Morgause began it, all those years ago.” It was difficult for him to admit the truth, to allow another into the privacy of his well-shielded fears.
Briefly Gwenhwyfar wondered whether to tell him Morgause was with the Ladies at Yns Witrin and had a daughter. To what point? It would open old wounds – best he knew nothing more of her.
“She frightened me.” He shrugged, feigning casualness. “I shut that fear from me, buried myself behind a rampart and wall determined never to feel shame and terror again.” His voice filled with hatred, as he added, “I would kill her if ever I met with her again.” No idle threat, he meant it.
As well, Gwenhwyfar thought, not to have said anything of her!
Touching his cheek with the tips of her fingers, she traced the drawn lines of fatigue, said softly, “Do I frighten you?”
Arthur caught her hand, brought it up to his lips, kissed each finger, then the palm. “You more than any. In a different way. Others, I have taken as I willed with no thought save for myself. I needed to dominate them, show I was not scared of their feminine power. Whores seem to care not how they are treated as long as they receive payment, and Winifred, I think, enjoyed it that way. But you,” he placed tender kisses on her eyes, cheeks and lips. “You frighten me because I am so scared I might lose you.” He faltered, embarrassed at talking of these deep-running feelings. “I know it is because of what Melwas did that you are unable to respond to my touch, but still I tell myself it might not be the reason. And that one there,” he indicated the sleeping child, “I was jealous of him. He kept me from your bed.” He stayed the words of protest that were forming with another, longer kiss. “But I am proud of him now he is here.”
She responded by returning the kiss with a passion she had forgotten existed. “Do you love me, Arthur?”
“Need you ask that of me?”
“I need.”
“Then aye, I love you. I have never loved any other than you. Nor have I had love in return, for the sake of love alone. I fear the slender thread that binds us will snap. That I have sawn through it.” He added something more. “You are more than my wife, you are my Cymraes. You are one alone, special, a single bright star shining in the blackness.”
“Then why talk of a slender thread, husband? For myself, I am bound to you by a chain of iron. Unbendable, unbreakable. Even death shall not free my soul from yours.”
He lay back, resting his head on the pillow and snuggled close to her warmth, surrendering to the tiredness that hammered persistently behind his aching forehead.
Gwenhwyfar held him lightly, thinking on his words. “I know of the conflict within you, dear heart, but I too have such a battle to wage. Happen together we can conquer this war which is tearing at us. Given enough patience.” She tilted her head to see his face more clearly, realised his breathing had slowed, shallowed.
Brenna entered the room some while later. Gwenhwyfar put her finger to her lips, whispered, “My two men sleep.”
April 456
XL
Marching was never a very appealing part of army life. Marching with full equipment in the pouring rain, and leading a perfectly rideable horse could bring some men close to mutiny. Except, the Pendragon was putting himself through the same punishing routine, and the men were wanting to become part of his elite Artoriani. Arthur had made things quite clear to them at the outset: “If you are not fit, if you cannot stand the pace, then get you back to Vortimer’s soft-bellied lizards.”
Throughout the winter men had drifted to Gwynedd in groups of three and four, singly, or brother with brother to join Arthur. From Dyfed, fifty young men had braved the first heavy snow to set their spears beneath his banner. The warming of spring saw more coming, the groups larger, the men eager. With those who had left Vortimer with Arthur, they had enough to form a full ala quingenaria. Five hundred enthusiastic men, striving to become the fittest, best-disciplined and most admired troops since the Roman Eagles had lifted the standards for which they were named, and taken sail back to Rome.
Arthur was determined to have them the best. These men, and those who would follow when the name of the Artoriani came familiar to everyone’s lips. He saw a day, in the not too distant future, when every young man who could sit a horse would seek to join his cavalry. But that day was not yet here, and until then he had to prove himself – and his men. So they drilled and they marched, they practised their fighting skills. On horseback, on foot. In pairs, as a group, as a turma of thirty men. And together as an ala.
Arthur wiped rain from his nose and hefted the shield slung across his shoulders. As commander he did not need to carry full equipment, but the muscles of horses and men had to be tightened and there was no better way than trotting ten miles over rough terrain carrying a full pack. He glanced behind at his men, walking with heads ducked, some with arms resting over their horses’ necks. Three miles to home. On the morrow they would practise again with spear throwing. Mounted, dismounted, from a walk, trot and canter. Already he had his men able to do most things at any pace. The jest around the campfires at night was that by the time Arthur had finished with them, they would be able to piss into a bucket at fifty paces while riding at full gallop.
He would let them mount up soon. The horses had not required the rest, but the men needed the additional exercise. Walking in this regular, steady-paced rhythm with his hand resting lightly on Eira’s sodden neck, Arthur’s mind began to drift – easy in safe territory where there was no need to watch for an enemy’s approach.
Several letters had arrived three days back. Most had been r
outine correspondence that came with any position of command. Two had not.
From Vortimer word that Vortigern was dead. He had fallen, hit his head on a step and never again opened his eyes. Whether he had in truth fallen or was pushed, Arthur had no particular care; the man was gone, leave it at that. With the news, a plea for the Pendragon to return with all possible speed. Arthur would have ignored it, let the fool drown in the ruin of his own making, except Vortimer had not asked, had not ordered, but had begged. “I will need every able man, Arthur, and you with your following are more able than most. I beg for your help, on your terms, Pendragon. Your terms.”
It was tempting. Very tempting.
And then there was the second letter. From Winifred.
Arthur halted Eira, signalled for the men to mount. Settling himself in the saddle, his thighs sliding neatly under the curve of the two pommel horns, he waited for the men to make ready, then moved off at a trot. Dusk would be falling soon and he had had enough of this damned rain. Enough of trailing through these mountains, too. Training was all very well, but occasionally there came a need for more. For the real thing.
He would go back to Vortimer, as the man said, on his own terms, and he would sort out this latest problem with his ex-wife. Gwenhwyfar would not like either of his decisions, but then she would not need to know of the second thing, would she?
Plunging his stallion into the foaming race of a river, Arthur gasped as its coldness hit his feet and legs, even through the warmth of grass-stuffed leather boots. After all, he reasoned, Winifred can do no harm now, and this son of hers means nothing to me, or Gwenhwyfar.
But if that was true, why did he feel this churn of dread in the pit of his stomach?
May 456
XLI
Winifred’s son had been born a lusty, healthy boy. With the coming of spring, he reached six months and he was crawling, gurgling and as chubby as a fatted ox.
Winifred adored him.
Sitting across the room, watching the man she insisted on calling husband drink his wine, she realised two important things. She loved Arthur and, though he had never seen their son, he detested their child.
“So,” she said breaking the uneasy silence, “you have gathered almost a quarter of the men loyal to my half-brother to your side.”
“I am as loyal to Vortimer as ever. It is just that some men prefer to ride behind my Dragon rather than his Boar.”
“While awaiting the chance for the dragon to slay the boar, aye, I suppose you would be.”
Arthur drained his goblet and stood up. “I agreed to see you, Winifred, against my better judgement. I expected to be insulted but not accused of treason. Say what you wanted me to hear and let me be gone.”
Winifred too stood. She lifted the wine jug from the table beside her and crossed to refill Arthur’s goblet. “Sit, husband, let us not quarrel.” She gestured towards the couch, smiled as she perched next to him, her skirts not quite touching his leg.
“I understand Vortimer intends to stand against Hengest some time soon, make a valiant attempt to send him back across the sea.”
Arthur laughed and moved along the couch away from the over close proximity of his ex-wife. “Did you arrange to meet with me just to discover the intentions of the King? Sorry, Winifred, find yourself another tattle-tale.”
She kept the smile pinned firm to her lips. He was as irritating as ever! “I asked to talk with you to discuss our son’s needs, husband. I am merely attempting to make polite conversation.”
Laughing all the louder, Arthur reclined back, his legs and arms sprawled haphazard. “I believe you, Winifred, truly I do.” He shook his head, still laughing, and sipped his drink. This wine was strong. He usually took more water with it, but he’d not lose face before this black-clad scheming bitch. All the same, he had best keep a clear head, which would not be easy the way Winifred kept topping up his goblet.
He touched her robe with one finger. “Why this drab garb? It looks most tragic, but does little to flatter your colouring.”
Her eyes sparked slightly, flattered, she inclined her head. “I wear it in mourning for my father, and also because the Holy Christian Sisters tend to wear such clothing. However, I thank you for the compliment.”
He grunted. “It was not meant as one.”
Winifred was not to be rebuffed. She took his hand in her own, replied, “All the same, it sounded as one.”
Withdrawing from her touch, Arthur plumped a cushion more comfortable behind his back. “And since when, Winifred, have you been a Holy Sister?”
Not missing the sarcasm she decided to answer truthfully. “Since the day you abandoned me to widowhood.” Arthur grunted again, unimpressed. “I have founded a women’s cloister on the edge of my estate, they have granted me the honour of conferring me as Abbess.” Ignoring a third snort of derision she continued, “In fact I am here at Verulamium to meet with Bishop Patricius to discuss where to found another such house.”
“Patricius? Was he not the fat fool who married us?”
Winifred ignored the insult. “It is most fortuitous that you are also here.”
Arthur bit back a retort. Nothing about Winifred was ever by chance. She was a schemer, like her mother – too much like her mother. He had never trusted either of them and was not about to alter strong-founded opinions just because Winifred professed to be enshrined in the Christian faith. She could be wailing to Woden on the morrow if it suited her.
In fact, this afternoon’s meeting had taken Winifred a lot of arranging. She had to speak with Arthur direct, but had to wade through a mire of past misunderstandings and prejudices to do so. The use of the Church would prove costly but, as she had succeeded in seeing Arthur, it would be worthwhile.
Now all she had to do was convince him of her loyalty and get him to acknowledge his son as his heir. Not that she needed formal acceptance, but why climb over the rocks if there was firm sand to walk upon?
“You knew I had sent letters from Less Britain, didn’t you?” she said.
Letters? Arthur carefully controlled his expression, sipped at his wine. One letter he knew of – but letters, plural? “Naturally,” he lied.
Winifred smiled to herself. So, he had not known! “Then, as you also know, I pleaded with my mother to send help, to bring me home. It took a while, Arthur, for me to realise she had no need of me, not since she had a son to take my place.” She put her hand over his. “A son, Arthur, who may one day become king, can mean so very much to a woman.”
He did not answer, nor, Winifred noted, did he this time remove his hand.
“That time at Caer Gloui, my mother left me struggling against the water swirling around our legs, left me to drown. She cared only to save her son.” Glancing sideways at Arthur: “You know she and my young brother are with Hengest?”
Arthur nodded. He knew.
Winifred shifted closer, her thigh pressing against his, fingers closing tighter around his hand. “When you slay Hengest, I ask you to slit Rowena’s treacherous throat also.”
Drily Arthur observed, “This request would have nothing to do with each of you vying for your own son to become King of the British?”
Winifred laughed, playfully squeezed his thigh. “Nothing at all.”
Deliberately, Arthur retrieved his hand and moved his leg away from hers. He sat forward, twisting his head to look at her. “I already have a son to follow me. He is named Llacheu ap Arthur and his blood is pure British with no taint of Saex poison.” He rose and tipped the wine on the floor, then opening his fingers he let the goblet fall, trod on the shattered glass.
Placing his hands on the couch on either side of her, he leant close, his lips almost brushing hers. “You have your entire dowry returned, the estate near Portus Adurni and your freedom to do what you will, within reason. Go raise your son to be a farmer or a priest and keep him well out of my way, Winifred.” He kissed her, a parting touch of mockery that sealed his threatened meaning. “If you do not, he will be n
ought but dust mouldering in a grave.”
She did not move away from him, sat completely still, but her voice trembled as she questioned, “You would not slaughter your own son?”
Arthur walked from her and crossed to the door, lifting his cloak from a stool as he passed. “I would not advise you to put me to the test.”
For a long while Winifred sat staring at the door he had closed behind him. She had turned from her mother’s people to ensure her son became Arthur’s heir. That the father would not accept the boy came as no surprise, but she had wanted to try, wanted at least to try. She stood, ignoring the shards of crushed glass crunching beneath her boot among the puddled wine. Cerdic would one day be king, Llacheu or no Llacheu.
Winifred smiled to herself as she left the room by a second door. Preferably no Llacheu.
July 456
XLII
July. The sun hung against a cloudless blue sky, rivers which ran as torrents in winter had dwindled to the trickle of streams, and even the mountains of Eryri seemed to sag beneath the heat. The coast had become too dry, the hot wind blowing sand into eyes, nose and throat; beaches stank of rotting seaweed and dead fish and birds. Enniaun moved his household to an inland stronghold where the mountains and valleys funnelled a cooling breeze.
Gwenhwyfar was helping to work the horses. She enjoyed the young stock, admired their natural reluctance for discipline, tempered by an eagerness to please. She was lunging a colt, setting him circling her on a long halter rope. His dark mane fell in a cascade from a proud neck and he carried his tail high as was the way with his ancestors, the desert-bred horses. His coat, the smudged charcoal colour of a youngster, would not turn white until maturity. Gwenhwyfar had especial pride in this one, a son of Cunedda’s best stallion and her own mare, Tan. A big colt, fast and powerful but with the manners and affability of a riding gelding. She called him ‘Hasta’, the Latin for spear.
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