Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur attempted to sound disinterested, as if all this was old, long-known news. “You hear many whispers, my Saex whore. From where do they come?”

  Mathild smiled, the indifference did not fool her for his body had stiffened, his breathing had quickened. Ah! Mathild knew many things! She was a woman of learning, could read and write both the Latin and Greek styles as well as her own English runic lettering. She knew too, how to read a person’s thoughts from the movement of eye or muscle or limb. She had seen the splendours of Rome and the wonders of the dancing lights that shimmered in the sky up in the clear coldness of the North Way, for she had travelled those many miles as a child and young woman with her mother’s brother, Leofric of the Elbe. How she had loved the thrill of his fast, splendid longships that sped like swans over the seas. She had even set foot in Arthur’s land, once, had seen the crowds and bustle of the city of Londinium, as it had been then, when she was younger. It had gone now, she had heard, that town, fallen into disuse and disrepair, save for the few peasant-folk who had built their poorly made bothies among the crumbling houses and falling walls. She had seen Arthur there when he had been serving as an officer under the then King of the British, Vortigern. She had been a child, but had seen and recognised the gleam of ambition in that young Pendragon’s eyes. She had seen Winifred, his wife, also. Seen and disliked her. As she now disliked her arrogant, power-grasping son, Cerdic.

  And so, in answer to his question she said, “I hear many things on the wind. A slave is considered to be mute and deaf, with no sense between the ears.” She shrugged. “It is a pose worth adopting.” Then she paused, followed in a rush, “I have never met Cerdic, yet I dislike him. He has that which should not be his. My uncle was tricked into leaving his land to Winifred’s brat; he was murdered for his wealth and title. Leofric was a respected man. What was his should, by all rights of inheritance, be mine.” Mathild lay rigid. It was not for a whore, a slave, to speak so forthright, so bitterly. She had no rights to anything, not freedom of thought or life, no right to go where she pleased, to own any possession, not even the clothes she wore. She had a slave ring around her neck; belonged to the man who had paid a garnet ring for her.

  But no man could take her mind, her past; no matter how ill she was used or beaten or starved. Both her mother and father were children of noble-born men. Her own husband had been a thegn, one of Odovacer’s bodyguard. And no man, not even the Supreme King of Britain, Arthur the Pendragon, could take away her determination to one day, one day, reclaim all that was rightfully hers.

  In the darkness, she did not see the slow, calculating smile that accompanied the fast-forming thoughts rapidly scheming in Arthur’s mind. He had intended to make use of her only this one night, for all the love he had for Gwenhwyfar, aye and all the assurances he had given her, he was a man who needed the comforts of intimacies. A few short months away from his wife he could endure, but within the turn of a few weeks it would be nearly the year around since he had left Britain – and the pleasures he gave and received with Gwenhwyfar were becoming desperate to be sated.

  Mathild would serve a passing purpose in that area, for she was pleasing enough – but for certain, some benevolent goddess by whatever guise she wore – Fate, Wyrd or the Roman Fortuna – had surely set this woman Mathild on his path.

  When this thing was sorted here in Gaul, when Rome finally shifted its arse and decided either to let him and his Artoriani fight or find suitable shipping home, he might just undertake another voyage after seeing to matters in Britain. Take a few of his men, two, three turmae ought be sufficient, and escort Mathild back to her dead uncle’s land along the Elbe river, aid her in claiming her inheritance.

  Arthur wriggled deeper beneath the bed covering, brought Mathild closer for her voluptuous warmth. He must needs write to Gwenhwyfar soon. Should he tell her of the whore he had bought for the price of a garnet? She would be angry. Rather he would word it: I have purchased a lawful way of removing Cerdic. That would please her, and happen, would set her understanding better over this need for another woman while he was so long away.

  March 469

  XVI

  “Hit it man!” Bedwyr bellowed, “It’s a bloody sword you’re using, not a pitchfork!” Exasperated, he turned, swivelling at the waist, to face Arthur who stood a yard or two behind. He spread his arms. “Jesu’s love, cousin, these mud-wallowers are hopeless!”

  Thrusting his fingers through his leather baldric strap, the Pendragon, masking his own frustration, merely shook his head. “They are all we have, Bedwyr, we must make fighting men out of them.” Added ruefully, and slightly under his breath, “Somehow.”

  Another rider made a pathetic attempt to cut at the straw-filled man with his sword. He pushed his horse into a canter, going too fast too soon. The horse, realising the uselessness of the man on its back stopped abruptly to crop grass three feet before the target. The rider, leaning forward, urging the horse on with frantic kicking legs and flapping arms, tumbled in a haphazard heap over the horse’s shoulder.

  “Oh Christ’s patience!” Bedwyr roared, striding forward to pick him up by the neckband of his tunic. Shaking the poor man as if he were a rat, Bedwyr scolded with his tongue. “Call yourselves riders? Horsemen? God’s blood, you’re nothing but a bunch of plough-pushers!”

  The faces of the ninety or so trainees fell longer, more disillusioned. They had come to join the Artoriani, filled with the hopes and dreams of glory – fight with Arthur, make a name for yourself! Half of this group were from Juliomagus, others from Caesarodunum or Condivicnum, coming from the towns, settlements or farm-steadings and drawn to Arthur’s cavalry like ants to spilt honey. All young men who were sick of Rome’s apathetic attitude towards the threat of the Goths. Arthur had accepted them, enrolling them as Cymry – only the best, the elite, became Artoriani, but Cymry, comrade, brother, was enough. To fight under Arthur’s Dragon Banner was enough.

  Bedwyr took a long, slow, deep breath. He and Arthur’s officers had to make soldiers out of these lumps. If Syagrius were to come, as promised, there would be no need to recruit these imbeciles, no need to count on the inane. But it seemed Syagrius was delayed, yet again, would not be coming now until next month.

  Arthur, last night, talking with his officers, had raised again the issue of going home, but even for that they had to rely on Syagrius, for it was he who had provided the ships, the horse-transporters, the seamen to bring them here.

  “What these men need,” Arthur said, with that familiar thoughtful expression of one eye half-closed, the other eyebrow raised, “is some incentive.” He stood a moment, considering; the next, he was running, pushing through the line of men. The horse that the rider had fallen from, a fine bay though its head was common, was still eating grass. Arthur vaulted into the saddle from a run, taking up the reins as he landed, and urging the animal into a gallop all in one movement. Startled, the horse tossed its head, snorted and leapt forward. Arthur galloped it across the training field, wheeled at the far end and without slowing, galloped back. The bay was going fast, eager, excited – and then Arthur performed several of the movements that were everyday exercises to the Artoriani: dismount at the gallop run a few paces, vault across the horse’s back to land on the far side, vault again; turn around in the saddle through a full 360 degrees. He had crossed the field, was swinging the animal to come again. Bedwyr ran forward, laid a javelin on the grass. Arthur saw, rode to take the thing up. Would he miss, so fast was he going? He leant down from the saddle, plucked the shaft up, rode on, the horse not breaking pace once, the javelin held high above the rider’s head. Arthur halted, bringing the horse to a stand. And then he circled, turning the horse this way and that, round and around, and as he manoeuvred, he threw the javelin, tossing it high, up above his head, catching it with each change of direction – and was off again, galloping straight at the straw-man target. Was past, the javelin quivering as it thudded neatly into where the heart would be.

  At the far end,
Arthur slowed, eased the horse to walk, caressed its neck, praising and patting, walked on a relaxed, loose rein back to the group of impressed men.

  “That,” he said simply, “is what it is to be Artoriani.” He dismounted, gave the reins of the sweating animal to its deposited rider, and with a final slap to its rump, Arthur sauntered away, as if the display of horsemanship was an everyday occurrence.

  At the edge of the field, near to where the ordered lines of tents began, a man waited, his arm looped through the reins of his horse. As Arthur approached he began to applaud, genuinely impressed.

  “That was a fine display, my Lord! Do all your men ride as competently?”

  Acknowledging the praise, Arthur answered truthfully, “Many are more proficient than I. That was nothing compared to some.” He held his hand forward for the man to clasp in greeting. “What brings you to my camp, Ecdicius?” He indicated the way to his command tent. “May I offer you wine?”

  Agreeing with enthusiasm, Ecdicius fell into step beside the Pendragon, who motioned for a cavalryman to take his guest’s horse.

  “I come for one reason only, Lord Riothamus.” Ecdicius paused, seeking how to put his thoughts, though he had rehearsed his speech over and over. He stopped abruptly, stepped in front of the Pendragon, his expression earnest, entreating. “Take me as one of your Artoriani, teach me to fight as your men fight.” His features crumpled into a crease of desperation. “You will not be staying in Gaul, you have your own land, your own kingdom to defend – someone must have at least a partial awareness of how to keep these barbarians at bay. I want to learn, want to know how my beloved country can survive when you are gone.”

  Arthur placed his hand on the man’s shoulders, steered him forward into his tent. Ecdicius was ten years Arthur’s senior at least. He was well meaning, his compassion and sincerity wholehearted, but to learn all Arthur knew in a matter of weeks?

  Ecdicius interpreted Arthur’s frown as a negative reply, for his fists bunched, his face contorted. “Teach me anything, even the rudiments of a cavalry charge, show me the basic needs. Give me something so I can drill the men who would fight behind me, as men fight behind you, as a cavalry team, as comrades, as one brotherhood.” Eager again, determined, “I can do it, I will. I mean to form for myself an efficient cavalry.”

  “Your wine.” They were inside the tent, Arthur’s personal quarters, cluttered as usual with papers, wooden writing-tablets, strewn clothing. The bed, a portable leather-strung cot, was rumpled in one corner, unmade. Women’s undergarments were clustered with the blankets.

  Arthur seated himself on one of the two stools, indicated to his guest to seat himself also. “How many men have you?”

  Eager, Ecdicius responded with, “Twenty. They have their own mounts, good quality stock, some with the desert breeding in them, as do yours.” He sat, leaning forward, the wine untasted, goblet clasped tight between his hands.

  “The horses I have brought are not my best. I would not bring the cream of my stock across the seas.” Remembering his trained war stallions and the breeding herds, Arthur fell silent. How many of the mares had foaled well this year? They needed good colts, sure-footed but fast, courageous but easy-tempered. The foundation stock had come from Gwenhwyfar’s father, Cunedda – his stallions from his father and grandfather. Fine, proud horses that were, so legend said, bred from the wind by the gods; horses that could do well on poor feed if necessary; horses that could carry a man all night and fight with courage and stamina the day after. They came from the desert lands, those original horses, given as gifts by the Romans to Cunedda’s family. The horses now, Arthur’s horses, were sturdier, broader, with shorter, thicker legs but they retained the intelligence, deep chest, bold eye and distinctive concave face. The desert breed, adapted through cross-breeding with the smaller native ponies for the changeable climate and rougher terrain of Britain.

  He ought to be at home helping train the two- and three-year-old colts, helping put the mares to this year’s selected stallions. Gwenhwyfar was overseeing all that, she was capable, more so than he, but he liked to be with the horses… Gwenhwyfar, he ought to be with Gwenhwyfar!

  Ecdicius was prattling something about these men he had, his ideas for a training programme; Arthur only half heard, he was looking at Mathild’s garments strewn over the bed.

  ‘What will you do about a woman?’ Gwenhwyfar had asked.

  ‘It’s a part of soldiering to take a whore occasionally,’ he had answered, truthfully, adding, ‘but we will be gone only the few months, I expect I can make do with the memory of you.’ A few months? Hah!

  He had written to Gwenhwyfar yesterday, telling her the army would soon be moving on again, that only the gods and Rome had the knowing of when they could turn around and march for home. Had said nothing of Mathild. Happen he ought to have done. Ought to have told his wife it was she he loved; not a slave-woman acquired merely for the comfort of his needs. It was Gwenhwyfar he wanted with him; his Cymraes, not Mathild, for all her pretty smile, intelligent conversation, and aye, soft skin… His thoughts were broken by Ecdicius repeating a question.

  “Do you read Vegetius? A wonderful man, wonderful strategy.”

  “Oh, er, aye,” Arthur rallied his mind back to the present, “Vegetius is useful. Arrian’s Tactica if you can get a copy is informative, or there is Xenophon, of course.”

  Ecdicius was delighted with the advice. “My brother-by-law has a vast library, he must have copies. He is soon to publish a collection of his poems, I shall arrange for you to be sent a copy.” He thumped the palms of his hands on his thighs with a resounding slap, announced, “But I must be on my way! It is agreed then? My men shall join with you as a separate turma. Aquilla Turma, I think. Our standard shall be the Eagle, after the honour of Rome!”

  Arthur stood as his guest came to his feet with that last declaration. What? How did...? He remembered making no such agreement, for Mithras’ sake!

  “Until the morrow, then.” And Ecdicius saluted and ducked from the tent.

  Arthur stood, dumbfounded, then laughed. If a civilian landlord could outmanoeuvre the Pendragon so smartly, then aye, happen he did have the makings of a reasonably good cavalry officer!

  XVII

  “No! My answer is no!” Aesc, Lord of the Kent Saxons, angrily banged the flat of his palm down onto the table causing the pewter tankards and plates to bounce. A chicken leg, balanced on a heaped bowl of cooked fowl, wavered and tumbled, rolled to the floor where a hound, snarling at his companions, greedily snapped it up. Several men seated at lower tables ranked along the Mead Hall glanced up at their leader’s bull-roar, saw Aesc was only reprimanding Vitolinus. They returned, unconcerned, to their food and drink. Vitolinus was always in one sort of trouble or another; he seemed to have a gift for rubbing people the wrong way.

  “But why?” Vitolinus protested vehemently. “I could take thirty or forty men this very night and… ”

  Aesc thrust himself with such force from the table his chair toppled backwards with a crash that boomed and echoed through the length and height of the building. His hand snatched out to catch hold of his nephew’s neckband, dragging the young man also to his feet. Aesc shook him, bellowing, “I said no! I have agreed peace with the Pendragon. If I ever decide to break that peace I will do the cattle-raiding or the settlement-burning, not you!” He shook Vitolinus again, “I will lead my warriors. I, Aesc of the Kent Jutes. Not a mere whelp who still drinks milk and has a handful of straw-piddling pups as hearth-mates!” He tossed the lad aside, sending him skidding across the timbers of the floor on his backside. Several men laughed; Vitolinus was not much liked by the older men, tolerated only because he was Aesc’s kindred, the son of their lord’s dead and buried sister.

  Righting his chair, and with a contemptuous snort, Aesc re-seated himself, stretched forward for a third helping of roasted fowl. Vitolinus clambered to his feet. His arm was bruised, his pride hurting worse. His expression was always a scowl, enhanced by the
scar that ran from ear to chin down the side of his long, thin face. Behind Aesc’s back his hand formed an obscene gesture; he turned and stalked, furious, from the Hall. Many a man breathed a sigh of relief at his going. Where Vitolinus sat there would always be a storm blowing. Few of the older men would grieve at a permanent ending to Vitolinus.

  Aelfred was younger, and like many of those of his age group, admired Vitolinus. He slipped from his own place at table and joined his friend, catching up with him a few yards from the Hall door. The sky was almost dark, a few stars stealing from behind wispy cloud cover. No moon this night. Vitolinus acknowledged his companion with a grunt, indicated he was heading for the kennels. His favourite bitch had whelped, he would need to check the pups before seeking his bed.

  They stood a while, watching the proud mother suckle her litter of eight. Aelfred pointed out a large, fat pup. “That one’ll be a fine dog when he grows! See how he shoves the others aside to get at her teats?”

  “Ja, a hound who knows his own mind.” Vitolinus made no effort to hide the anger that burnt inside him. “As do I.”

  Aelfred was silent a moment, leant his weight on his arms, straddling the closed gate of the hound pen, said, “So you want to lead a raiding party against the British?”

  Vitolinus only grunted as a reply.

  Vaguely, Aelfred observed, “Aesc is our lord, he must know what is best.”

  “It is in my mind, old men prefer the warmth of a hearth fire to the cold of battle.”

  Aelfred was not shocked by Vitolinus’s rebellious words. Aesc’s nephew was known for his provocative opinions. And aside, he agreed.

  “It is also in my mind,” Vitolinus continued, knowing his companion’s thoughts well enough, “those same old men need reminding occasionally of who we are, where we come from. Are we the Pendragon’s slaves? Or are we warriors, proud men who take what we want, when we want?”