Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  He sighed, long and loud. He would have preferred this half-complete building finished rather than have a fortress saddled on him. Council wanted a stronghold, wanted preparations ready, in hand. He did not, but Council would have their way. He turned away, resigned, and saw his son hobbling with his cumbersome crutch and dragging, lame leg. Another thing that must be accepted yet stuck like a fish-bone in the throat. His only son was limp-legged and useless.

  Cadwy tried a cheery expression, aware he was a constant disappointment to his father. He pointed with his crutch to the building works up on the hill. “It goes well, Father! Soon it will be finished.”

  Ambrosius returned a forced smile that did not reach the eyes. Aye, soon it would be finished and then Council would be pressing for him to use it, to take over the permanent leading of this God-forgotten damn country. He did not want that either, but who else was there to do it? Who else could herd this lost and weary province back into Rome’s protective pastures? He gestured at the abandoned building behind him, said, the sadness all too obvious in his voice, “I would rather it had been my school for teaching God’s word that was nearing completion, not this place of war.”

  “War?” Cadwy stayed determinedly cheerful. “Surely Father, the fortress is a precaution only, a standby in case Arthur… ”

  “Does not come back?” Ambrosius finished for him. Added, in a loud, slow voice, as if he were talking to a child not a man of ten and eight, “Arthur will not be back. Council will not allow him back.”

  Abandoning the pretence of a smile, Cadwy shook his head, pleading with his eyes for his father to accept that although the leg was twisted and wasted there was nothing wrong with his head and mind. “Can Council stop him?” he asked cautiously. “Arthur has many men, he is a warlord unparalleled in battle.” Difficult for Cadwy, for he liked the Pendragon, admired and respected him, but the loyalty had to go to his own father. A father who gave all to his Christian God and spared no love for his son.

  Ambrosius twitched his hand, dismissive. He was a man who believed firmly in the ways of Rome, the old ways of law and order and justice. It was Council, the British equivalent of the Senate, who should have the voice of power, not kings or princes. Command should be by an appointed governor. If Council decreed he ought to be that governor, then who was he to go against the will of the Council? His nephew frequently did exactly that, but then, his nephew – aye and his nephew’s dead father, Uthr Pendragon -were in Rome’s eyes almost barbarian. Ambrosius took a patient breath. What had become of Rome, to allow such men the respect of recognition?

  “Arthur’s men are across the sea and he fights with horses. His cavalry is what makes him good. Take away the horses and you are left with nothing.” He began walking up the sloping ground in the direction of the rising fortress, pacing with deliberate long strides, making it hard for Cadwy to keep up. He knew what he had just said was not true, but he could not admit that, not even to himself. He had to believe what Council said and decreed was the right of it, the only way of it. Had to. “Arthur’s men,” he stated, “may find a way to return, but he will not be able to transport the horses.” He added no more, for this part of it – huh, if he were truthful, all of it, but this part in particular – left a sour taste in his mouth, left behind a putrid smell of poison and treachery. Council was already seeing to it that the ships would not be available to bring Arthur’s valuable war-horses back. Horses that cost much in time and gold and experience to breed and train.

  Resentful, for Cadwy could smell that stench of naked treason, the young man almost snapped a sharp retort, but dutifully swallowed the thought that his father sounded pleased. It was no secret that these two, the Pendragon and Ambrosius, nephew and uncle, had little liking for each other. Opposites in nature and mind. Instead, Cadwy steered a safer course, asked, “You would not use horses then?”

  “Not like Arthur does, no.”

  More disappointment, although he had already known the answer. Cadwy could ride a horse; could, if he were shown how, fight from a horse. It had been the one thing that had pulled him through the burning, paining illness that had crippled him at the age of seven years: the hope that, when he was grown, he could ride a horse and join with the Pendragon’s cavalry. Arthur had become King that month, as Cadwy began to surface from the horrors of those long months of agony and near-death. A great battle there had been, over on the east coast, against the mighty Saxon warlord, Hengest. Arthur had won his sword in that battle, taken it from an ox-built Saex and slaughtered the sea wolves with its shining strength. Cadwy’s nurse had told him the tale of the battle – as many, many others had been retelling the same thing throughout the land of Britain. He had so wanted to be a part of that glory, the hope and excitement. He could be still, if his father would only let him ride a horse suited to war. No use regretting. It would not happen, he was a lame-leg, a nothing. And his father intended to take the Pendragon’s place.

  He hurried his awkward steps to stay apace of Ambrosius, the thought flashing like a stabbed spear into his mind that he did not want to fight Arthur. He slowed, unable to keep up, turned back down the slope. He would need to take the easier track up the east side, not this steep, grass way.

  His father was near the top, pausing to say something to the men who were stone-facing the highest rampart. Another bitter thought, best kept secure to himself. When the fight eventually came between Arthur and his father, Cadwy so hoped it would be the Pendragon who won.

  XII

  The Mass of the Nativity, for all its meaning of birth and celebration was, for two particular people in the congregation, a solemn, reflective occasion. For them, the service was poignant, a reminder of their own born sons. The joy of the birth of the Christ child being overshadowed by disillusionment and regret.

  Here, in the splendid holy building at Venta Bulgarium, Winifred and Ambrosius Aurelianus sat, each in shadowed isolation upon their privileged seating of high-backed, cushioned and ornately carved chairs. The Bishop was intoning his sermon. Several of the nobility arrayed on the front rows of hard wooden benches had their chins tucked well into their chests, though only one had the indecency to snore.

  Venta was one of the few towns that could still boast a bishop. Aquae Sulis had old Justinian: a frail man, who had to be carried everywhere by litter and often stank of the bowel flux. Gwynedd had Bishop Cynan, firmly installed as shepherd of men at the wondrous recently built chapel of Valle Crucis. Winifred intended to travel there one day to see if it really was more splendid than this, her church. Eboracum was a deserted town now, save for the Saex who seemed not to mind the annual flooding. Durovernum was partially destroyed, its crumbling stone walls protecting the establishment of Aesc’s Jute settlement, Canta Byrig, his capital town.

  Deva, Caer Gloui and Caer Lueil, the minor towns that had once seen the wealth of Rome, had never quite recovered from various tragedies of flood or assault, or abandonment. Only Venta Bulgarium flourished because Winifred sank much of her wealth into it, and Ambrosius, Governor of Britain, patronised its church.

  Compared to the simple standards of the period, the building was a superb place. Twice the size of any other known British church and built in the style of an equal-sided cross. A single narrow, green and blue glass window was set in the eastern wall, solid-built of stone. Above, a slate roof, not straw or reed-thatched, topped the vaulted, carving-encrusted rafters. Standing on the linen altar cloth were a golden crucifix the height of a man’s forearm, two chalices and a silver salver.

  Winifred had financed much of the construction and decoration, bringing in the best Roman architects, the best masons and carpenters. It was intended to be grander than the wattle-built shacks that normally served as church or chapel, a place where pilgrims would come to worship the Christian God. A place to generate wealth for the Church – and Winifred. Travellers needed somewhere to sleep and eat. Farmers came to sell goats and cattle in the wide-spaced forum, traders brought their pottery, jewellery, cloth. Th
e Church – the Bishop – or Winifred, owned between them the taverns and open-fronted shops, collected rent for the stalls. Were doing very nicely out of her investment.

  Winifred fingered the crucifix dangling from her corded waist-belt, feeling its shape, its smoothness, trying to feel its meaning and comfort, finding instead only the cold of emptiness. Arthur had mocked her devotion to the Christian faith, accusing her of using religion to further her own gain. To a point happen she had, but she did believe. That was not faked. Believed, but found no comfort. God had deserted her, had allowed her son to turn on her. She knew she ought to regard this as some sign of testing her faith, of her true love of God; but she could not find the strength, the willingness. God and the Christ she loved, but not above her son, Cerdic.

  And Ambrosius, sitting opposite her on the spear side of the aisle, chased similar thoughts in a crazy whirl around his mind. He ought to be listening to the Bishop’s words, focusing his attention on God, not Cadwy, his misshapen, useless son. The doubts and bitterness had been encroaching stronger of late. The questions, the asking why. Why, if God favoured him to become the sole lord of Britain, had He not blessed him with a strong, capable son? A son able to command an army, able to ensure the taking of what had been Arthur’s? To follow, as his heir.

  Cerdic had turned his back on his mother and her oppressive Christianity, had returned, with determination of will to the people and pagan beliefs of his stepfather. Similarly, Cadwy felt no love for this Christian God, who was supposed to offer love and comfort, for where was the comfort in knowing your earthly father despised you?

  The nativity: an adaptation of the pagan celebration of life and rebirth. As the Bishop finished his monotonous diatribe at last, Winifred felt a tear slide down her cheek. All she had fought for, lied, cheated and even killed for. All she had built and sown and harvested. All had been for Cerdic. He had to become king after Arthur, for without him as supreme what was left for herself? Nothing, save the loneliness of an unwanted, set-aside ex-wife.

  Ambrosius mouthed the words of the chant, reciting by rote of habit. What was there for him after he had taken what was offered now that Arthur was away, unlikely to come back? If there was no one to pass his gain to, no one to ensure the continuation of all he had worked and struggled to achieve, what was the point of gaining it?

  The Bishop offered the Blessing, took up his mitre and crosier and with his retinue pacing in solemn splendour, proceeded down the central aisle, his soft doeskin boots scuffing on the bright colouring of the intricately patterned mosaic flooring. He had his own thoughts, his own ambitions. The position of Archbishop had never been refilled after the tragic massacre of so many of the Church a few years past at Eboracum. Both Ambrosius Aurelianus and the Lady Winifred were sure to have been impressed by his splendid sermon today. He smiled benignly at the poorer people of his flock huddled towards the rear of the grand church. Archbishop! The title sat well in his ambitious thoughts.

  February 469

  XIII

  It was raining. Not the soft drizzle of a British early springtime shower, but a harsh, wind-blustering swathe of winter, stinging needles that pulsed in from the wave-tossed river. Juliomagus was sodden. Water cascaded from low-hung eaves and cracked, broken gutters. The street drains, unrepaired for years, were blocked beyond use; consequently the mud seethed with sewage, foetid and stinking. The heavy wheels of ox-carts became stuck; people were truculent and irritable as they hurried about their business, heads dipped, shoulders hunched. At the Forum, where the market traders had set their stalls, requirements were bartered for quickly, no one caring to browse or chat.

  Arthur, however, was in no hurry. Several citizens, scuttling, bent against the rain, knocked into him, cursed as he strolled along the Via Apollo. He was talking, hands animated, to Bedwyr, expressing personal preference for the town’s selection of wines. In turn, Bedwyr was challenging his cousin’s choice, both men heedless of the discomfort of rain.

  “The Red Bull,” Bedwyr insisted, “serves the best Greek. Your nomination of the Grape cannot hold a candle to it!”

  “Nonsense, the Grape’s wine is stored the better, their amphorae are kept in cool cellars, the Bull’s stores are nigh on in full sun!”

  Bedwyr was having none of it. He pointed at the sky. “Sun? Do they get sun in this dull place?” The disagreement colourfully continued as they strolled the length of the next street and around the corner. They had reached the eastern side of the Forum.

  Normally crowded, the wide, square marketplace was woefully empty. Traders’ stalls dripped sorrowfully, displayed wares looking soggy and unexciting. Foodstuffs, clothes and the like were ruined, although the sellers would find some way of making a financial gain.

  “The Grape has one unquestionable advantage, though, cousin!”

  “Which is?” Bedwyr queried.

  “The dark-eyed Diana!”

  Bedwyr laughed. Aye, he had to concede that point. Diana was indeed a most enticing serving lass.

  The Pendragon’s intense gaze was skimming across the expanse of the mud puddled cobbled square, to the opposite side in the direction of a huddled group of slaves squatting miserably beside the inadequate shelter of a tavern wall. They sat dismally hunched against the wet as best they could, movement restricted by the ropes that tethered them to wooden slave-posts. Always a depressing corner of any Forum, the slave market. Arthur usually avoided them. He had his own slaves, what man did not? But those on sale in decaying towns such as this were frequently a sad lot. Today’s offerings were probably no exception; the usual selection of old men, women past their prime, skinny, scabby children. Saxon, most of them, the occasional Frank or Burgundian.

  He was supposed to be making his way to a designated meeting with Sidonius Apollinaris, one-time Ambassador of Gaul and Prefect of Rome, a man now somewhat discredited by his friend’s treasonable letter, an incitement against peace. There was no hurry; let the intrusive little turd wait. Arthur and his men had been kept waiting these long months; all damn summer and winter. One promise and assurance after another delayed or set aside. Sidonius had requested this meeting to explain the latest set of excuses for keeping the Britons encamped with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to fight with or against – and aye, there was a degree of explaining to do! Having a few bones of his own to pick over, Arthur had agreed to meet – aside, there was little else to do in this town, especially on such a miserable, wet morning.

  “Now, Diana might be alluring, but what of that fair-skinned beauty?” Making his way obliquely across the Forum, Arthur pointed at a girl, her hands bound, tethered by a rope from a neck ring to the slave-posts. She was standing, dressed well for a slave, arguing fiercely with the slave-master, her head tossing, foot stamping. A second man, fat-bellied and porcine in appearance was joining in, a goatskin was dropped in the mud at his feet, in one hand he held out a leather pouch, which jingled a few coins. The other hand made a grab for the girl, who darted nimbly aside while pouring more complaint at her master. Intrigued, Arthur, with Bedwyr at heel, wandered closer.

  “I am worth more than that piddling amount!” she was declaring heatedly. “A few bronze coins and a stinking goatskin? Woden’s breath, I am a noblewoman’s daughter, you cannot sell me for the price of a…” she spat at the man attempting to purchase her, “for the price of a piss pot!”

  Arthur folded his arms, grinning. A slave negotiating her own payment? He had never seen or heard such a thing.

  “Take my offer or go without, Tadius!” the fat man protested. “It is a good offer; you’ll not sell such a shrew for better in this town.”

  Tadius obviously agreed for he took the leather pouch. The girl shrieked her rage. “My mother was the sister of a thegn – of Leofric of the Elbe. She was wife to one of Odovacer’s trusted generals. I am related to royal birth, damn it!” Tadius was ignoring her, unfastening her tether. “By the Hammer!” she cursed, “I am related by marriage to the King of Britain, to Riothamus himself
– I ought to be valued as a royal concubine, nothing less.” She fell forward to her knees as the slave-master jerked her rope, breath knocking from her.

  “You’re a tongue-shrilling damn nuisance,” the man countered. “No wonder I was offered you so cheap – Odovacer, the Saxon warlord, probably sold you into slavery himself to be rid of you from his encampment!”

  “I was abducted by the stinking Gauls, as you well know, you bastard!”

  Standing with his familiar expression of one eyebrow raised, the other eye half shut, Arthur’s interest had heightened. Leofric of the Elbe? Winifred’s deceased husband? Surely there would not be two of the same name and title?

  The fat man had hold of the rope, was jerking it to encourage the girl to stand, succeeding only in dragging her forward. Panic was behind her eyes, although she was masking her fear well.

  “There are some men who enjoy a bit of spirit in their bed,” the Pendragon said, to no one in particular. ‘Tis easy enough to stop a tongue from clacking.”

  The fat man hauled the rope harder, causing the girl to gasp as the other end choked at her neck. He was grinning, jowls flapping, an ugly, insidious man. “Why think you I buy her? To converse with over dinner?”