Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Shadow of the King

  Helen Hollick

  BOOK THREE OF THE PENDRAGON'S BANNER TRILOGY

  SilverWood Books

  Published in paperback and eBook 2011 by SilverWood Books

  www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk

  Text copyright © Helen Hollick 2011

  Genealogy © Avalon Graphics 2011

  eBook by www.bristolebooks.co.uk

  The right of Helen Hollick to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  ePub eBook ISBN 978-1-906236-96-0

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-906236-66-3

  To Hazel

  I remember you when I read the scenes set in France and Brittany – the lizard on the wall at Vezelay, the magic of the Stones at Carnac…

  You are gone, but not forgotten.

  Part One

  The Ragged Edge

  May 468

  I

  Above the great height of Caer Cadan, the sky swept blue and almost cloudless. The bright, sparkling blue of an exuberant spring that was rushing headlong into the promised warmth of summer.

  The flowers along the already dry and dusty lane that ran around the base of the stronghold were massed in a profusion of splendid colour. Gwenhwyfar was gathering plants, those for healing: bugle for bruising; poor robin, a renowned cure-all. And flowers for their colour and scent to brighten her chamber. Campion; the meadow goldfinch that some called broom; wild parsley; cuckoo pint… She darted forward to snatch her fifteen-month-old daughter’s hand from clutching a butterfly.

  The child’s wail of protest heaved like a cast war spear up to the soaring sky, hurtling past the defensive earthworks of high banks and deep ditches.

  The guard on watch, slowly pacing the wooden rampart walkway, heard and looked down, concerned. Grinned to himself as he watched Gwenhwyfar hug the child and soothe her. It was a glorious day, and all seemed well with Arthur Pendragon’s Kingdom of Britain.

  Archfedd, a fat-as-butter child, was much like her mother: copper-bright, unruly hair, green eyes flecked with tawny sparks of gold, set, determined expression. She reached again for the butterfly, the sobs coming louder as it fluttered out of harm’s way.

  Gwenhwyfar chided her. “Hush child! They are not for catching, you will tear the wings.” And she had the temper and mule-stubborn pride of her father, Arthur, the Supreme King. Gwenhwyfar neatly deflected the rising anger by giving the child a handful of flowers to hold. The girl’s squawks subsided into a few half-hearted, tearful breaths as she absorbed herself with the new occupation of systematically shredding the petals. Gwenhwyfar left her to it. Better petals than wings.

  Horses! The thud of hooves, jingle of harness.

  The lane twisted away from Gwenhwyfar’s line of sight, slipping between earth banks topped with wattle fencing made from entwined hawthorn and hazel. In the pasture beyond, mares grazing content on the new spring grass lifted their heads and began to prance, snorting, into a bouncing, high-stepping, exaggerated trot. Their foals, those that had them, ran at heel, long-legged and gangling, with bushed, fluffy tails twirling in a frenzy from this sudden excitement. A stallion answered the mares, showing-off with a trumpeting call, and the sound of horses approaching came closer, nearer. They would be around the bend, in view, soon.

  Gwenhwyfar lifted her daughter, settled her comfortably on her hip, stood looking along the hoof-rutted, narrow lane; waiting, expectant and hopeful, her heart thumping. The banner she saw first, bobbing above the fenced, man-built banks; the bright white of the linen and the proud, bold red dragon with its gold-embroidered eye and claws. Arthur! Her husband was home!

  Running a few steps with initial pleasure, Gwenhwyfar halted, suddenly undecided, a great clasp of insecurity and fear gripping her. She stood, again waiting, apprehensive, chewing her lower lip. What had he decided after this week of discussion with his uncle? Had Ambrosius Aurelianus persuaded him? Ah, but then, the Pendragon would not need much convincing. Wherever there was the prospect of a fight, Arthur would find some excuse to be there.

  The lead horses came into view, the King’s escort, the riders wearing the uniform of the Artoriani, white padded tunics, red cloaks. Then the Pendragon’s banner and the turma’s own emblem – and Arthur himself, riding easy in the saddle, his face lighting with pleasure as he saw Gwenhwyfar and his daughter waiting for him. The happiness faded as he drew rein, looked directly into his wife’s eyes. He waved the men on, watched as they jog-trotted past and began to make their way up the cobbled track that climbed steeply up to the gateway into the King’s stronghold.

  Shifting Archfedd to her other hip, Gwenhwyfar returned Arthur’s stare. He ran his hand down his stallion’s chestnut neck, almost an uneasy gesture.

  “You are going then?” she said, more as a statement than question.

  He nodded, a single, brief, movement. “I have to, Cymraes.”

  As he knew she would, Gwenhwyfar flared a retort. “Who says you have to? Your men? Me? No, Arthur, you do not have to answer this asking for help. Gaul must look to its own defence, as we have had to all these years.”

  The Pendragon dismounted, lifting his leg over the two fore-pommel horns of the saddle, and slid to the ground. With the coming of summer he would be thirty and three years of age – but he wore the ragged eye-lines of a man ten years older. It had been a long and often bitter struggle to place the royal torque around his neck and keep it there. Arthur had been King for eleven years. And he intended to stay King for, at the very least, twice as many more.

  “I am not answering Gaul. I need to give aid to Less Britain, for Armorica is also of my Kingdom. I personally own an estate three times the size of Aquae Sulis there – do I turn my back on British people because their land is across the sea?” He stepped forward, but made no attempt to touch his wife, knowing she would shrug aside his hand. “The Roman Emperor himself is pleading for my help – personally asking for my Artoriani to join with his allies against the barbarians who seem intent on destroying what remains of Roman Gaul.”

  Archfedd was too young to understand the distress in her mother’s eyes, the determination in her father’s. She was wriggling against Gwenhwyfar’s hold, her chubby arms stretching for her father to take her. Arthur reached for her, tossing her high as he took her up, catching her in his strong hands, her dimpled smile rippling into giggles of delight. All the while he stared at Gwenhwyfar. “If Gaul falls to the plundering of Euric’s Goths, Less Britain may be next. I cannot allow that to happen.”

  “And Britain?” she retorted. “Who will see us kept safe while you are gone?”

  Her father’s attention no longer on her, Archfedd was demanding to be put down. Arthur set her beside a clump of bright-coloured flowers, showed her how to pick the stems, gather a posy. He straightened, turned and took up the reins of his stallion, hauling the chestnut away from cropping the rich grass. It was difficult for him to spit the answer out for he knew Gwenhwyfar’s response. His own heart held the same uneasy misgivings. He mounted, said the one name.

  “Ambrosius.”

  II

  Stroking the stone in his hand one last time along the length of his sword’s blade, Arthur tested the sharpness of the edge with his thumb. It could slice the wind, this sword. He had taken it for his own from a Saxon in battle and used its beauty to persuade the British men of the army to proclaim him as King, by telling them a fanciful tale of it
s forging. One side of his mouth twitched into a smile as he remembered that moment of blood-pulsing, glorying triumph. The man destined to carry this sword will be the greatest of all kings. That is what he had told them, those men who now formed the elite, permanent, disciplined ranks of his cavalry, his Artoriani. And with them had come the militiamen and the young warriors of Britain, men who fought when and where needed for their king as the Brotherhood of the Cymry. The Supreme, the Bringer of Peace? Huh! He ran his thumb down the shimmering strength of that craftsman-forged blade; snorted self-contempt. Peace to Britain, but not his wife. He could not use a sword to cut the ice wall that had formed solid between them these past few days.

  Arthur raised his head. A horse was being pulled up from a canter beyond the open doorway. An exchange of cheerful greeting mingled with the outside sounds of voices, children playing, wood-chopping; hammering; the sounds of a king’s Caer. A young, confident-faced man strode into the Hall, paused to adjust from the daylight brightness to the shadow-muffled interior, head up, eye seeking the King among the many. Bedwyr. He saw Arthur, threaded his way towards him. Stripping off his helmet and loosening his cloak his footsteps thudded on the timber boards as he happily nodded greetings to others in the Hall, kissing a serving girl who laughed a welcome. He stopped before his older cousin with a smart salute. Arthur, the sword still across his lap, accepted the acknowledgement of formal homage.

  “We go then?” Bedwyr’s enthusiasm showed white teeth against the darkness of his beard-hidden grin.

  At least someone was delighted at the prospect.

  Sliding the thirty-six inches of potential death into the protection of its sheepskin-lined scabbard, Arthur nodded assent. “You have heard? Word spreads faster than a diving hawk. Ships will be sent within the month to fetch us.”

  Bedwyr rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Time to get drunk beforehand?” Added, “Durnovaria is buzzing with the news – talk in the taverns along the road home is of nothing else.” With a laugh, Bedwyr finished, “It seems people are pleased at the prospect to be rid of you!”

  Arthur laughed with his cousin as he pushed himself upwards to his feet, slapped his hand on the young man’s back. “I like to keep my people happy. And aye, we’ll have a hosting for all those wanting to come on this mad-fool escapade. Barley-brewed ale and the best Gaulish wine, eh?” He began to fasten the jewel-studded, bronze buckle of the leather scabbard strap around his waist, glanced up to see Gwenhwyfar enter the Hall from the far door, coming in from her small patch of garden. She wore pale green, the colour of new-budded leaves, with ribbons of a darker shade braided through the copper-gold of her hair. His stomach tightened as it often did whenever he saw her, especially as now, with shafts of dancing sunlight shimmering around her. He felt the sudden stomach-twisting lurch of desire as she came across the Hall to welcome Bedwyr.

  “What is this?” she laughed, pointing at the whiskers around the young man’s chin. “Three weeks away and you sprout a bush!” She hugged her husband’s cousin, her own good friend. “How is Geraint? Looking after my Enid, I trust?”

  Bedwyr embraced her in return, batting playfully at the fingers tugging at his beard. “Geraint’s Enid is settling well into married life – you must no longer look upon her as your handmaiden, she is a freeman’s daughter, married now to a prince!”

  Gwenhwyfar retorted with matched seriousness, knowing he teased. “How am I to find a new nurse for Archfedd? Enid was so good with my children – which is of course why Geraint took her, needing to find a replacement for his motherless brood.” She relented, “I expect no man of Geraint’s young age to stay a widower. Enid went to her marriage bed with my full blessing.”

  “Which is more than I have for going to Gaul,” Arthur sniped. She ignored him, kissed Bedwyr’s cheek a second time and turned to go into the private chamber built along the rear of the Hall.

  Arthur had not slept there these past nights, lying instead among the unmarried men who used the warmth of the King’s Hall for their sleeping place. He had tried, that first night of his homecoming from Ambrosius, to enter his own rooms, but the atmosphere had been as chill as the longest winter’s night. He was not welcome; he stayed away.

  Sensing the animosity, Bedwyr fashioned a sympathetic expression. “It seems not everyone is enthusiastic about the prospect of Gaul then?”

  “Na, not everyone.” Arthur turned the subject. “Does Geraint accompany you? I need to have a word with him.”

  Nodding, Bedwyr confirmed, “Aye, he rides with Enid, they will be here within the hour. I came ahead.” His grin was returning. “He is eager to come with us, though I suspect my Lady Gwenhwyfar may find an ally with his wife.” A thing to be expected; the couple had been married but two months.

  Arthur sighed, steered Bedwyr into the corner where the flagons of ale and wine were stored. Gwenhwyfar was angry with him because she was afraid. Afraid because she might lose him.

  This escalating trouble in Gaul was not their fight, but the barbarian invaders were increasingly demanding too much land for their own. Land that was once Roman. Some of it had been given legally, as reward for services to the Empire, but men like Euric of the Visigoths wanted a kingdom and cared not how much blood need be spilt to get it. He was not a man to stop until the whole of Aquitainia was his – and from there it would be Soissons and the land given in friendship to the Burgundians – or Arthur’s Less Britain. Gwenhwyfar was afraid because she knew he had to go; was afraid because the ache in her bones was screaming that he might not come back. Anger was an easier emotion to face than fear.

  The Pendragon too, was afraid, for all those same reasons and more. This was a risk he was taking, agreeing to go into Gaul and help in the fight that would soon be coming there. It was not the fighting – any battle anywhere was a risk. You came out of it dead or wounded or alive. But to leave your kingdom to fend for itself for a whole season? A risk that sent the shudders of fear coursing through his belly. Especially when that kingdom was poked, prodded and battered on all sides by its own share of troubles. And when the majority of men on the Council supported the King’s uncle, not the King. Men who would like nothing better than to have Ambrosius as supreme. Not Arthur.

  He motioned for a slave to pour them each a tankard of ale, said in answer to Bedwyr’s last comment, “Enid has no need to fear, I cannot take Geraint with us.”

  Bedwyr took a deep draught of the ale, enjoying the rich, barley-bitter taste, raised his eyebrows at his cousin, half-questioning, then nodded, understanding as he wiped residue from his beard. “Ambrosius?” he queried. Needed no answer.

  Ambrosius Aurelianus, youngest brother to Arthur’s father. Ambrosius, who styled himself the last of the Romans in Britain, titled himself Comes Britanniarum because he did not agree with the barbarian title of Rex, King. Oh, on the surface these last few years he had patched his differences with the Pendragon, but the suspicions were still there, on both sides. Stronger for Arthur, who was certain his uncle was waiting his chance. His God-given chance.

  Ambrosius had backed Arthur into this corner from where there was no escape except agreement. Ambrosius, guiding the Council, insisted Arthur give aid to Roman Gaul, out of duty, out of loyalty; out of necessity. For all those reasons, Arthur had no choice. He had to agree, had to go. Giving the ideal opportunity for the uncle to be rid of the annoying nephew.

  Only half listening to Bedwyr’s excited chatter about his recent visit with Geraint, Arthur’s eyes watched the closed door to the chamber at the rear. His chamber; his wife’s. He had to settle this thing with Gwenhwyfar soon, before this wound festered and turned putrid.

  Easier to command the sun to cease its shining!

  III

  The evening gather was more than the serving of the day’s main meal. It was a time for laughter and conversation, of sharing brave deeds and excited dreams; to air complaint or suggest change, a time when all were welcomed to the King’s Hall.

  Bedwyr this evenin
g was entertaining those within listening distance at his end of the trestle table with stories of his visit to Durnovaria, while Geraint, seated next to him, and amid much laughter, exposed the younger man’s more gross exaggerations.

  Late evening; the sky had already slid into the dusky purple of day’s end, and night, with the accompanying scent of damp earth, woodsmoke and the heady, overpowering perfume of Mayblossom, was wrapping herself, protective, around the world. The door opened slightly, Arthur’s gatekeeper slipped in making his way between the crowded tables set in rows along the length of the Hall, exchanging word here and there as he passed. He came to Arthur, talked quietly into the King’s ear. The Pendragon frowned, chewed thoughtfully at the chicken wing in his hand. Those nearby eased their chatter, aware something was happening; discreetly, curious eyes were glancing at the King, watchers, with ears pricked, listening for a snippet of conversation.

  “It seems,” Arthur declared, setting down the bones and sucking grease from his fingers, “that my ex-wife seeks an audience.” He barked a single stab of amusement, caught Gwenhwyfar’s attention as he added, “She begs my immediate attention.”

  Gwenhwyfar frowned. “Winifred asking polite permission to enter our Hall?” She lifted her goblet in a mocking toast, “I drink to a first-time event!”

  Laughing with her, Arthur added, “Aye, usually she barges in demanding my attention like a Roman warship under full sail. I often have the impression that it is I being summoned to her.” Amusement spread through the Hall. They all knew Winifred, Arthur’s first wife, his much disliked ex-wife.

  Despite the fact they were legally divorced thirteen years past and she was now widowed from a second husband, Winifred perversely thought herself the official, and only, Lady Pendragon, Arthur’s legitimate wife, and mother of his only known surviving son.