Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  “The night is young, my old friend, and as you say, ‘tis a pity about the women.” He sprung full around, with a bark of laughter slapped his companion and adviser on the back as he sauntered past, heading for the shadowed woodland rising to the west of the steading. To the men he called, “Hoist the choice of carcasses into the trees for safe keeping, we will collect them on the return journey.” And with an expression that was more sneer than grin, exclaimed, “I have a taste to roast more than one whoreson’s family in their beds this night!”

  Cheering, raising their voices in battle song, the young men gathered up their weapons and swaggered away from the flames of what had, an hour before, been the farm of an elderly couple and their grandchildren.

  Reluctant, resigned, Cille followed behind. Ja, soon he would go home. But not yet.

  XXIII

  The sun filtered, dappled, through the overhead canopy of leaves and branches. It was shaded, cool beneath the trees, but insufferably hot in the open for so early in the year. If this continued, the wider, shallower, rivers would soon be running low; grass, even in these woodlands, was already dry and brown. Arthur only hoped Euric and his Goths, somewhere away to the south, were as uncomfortable and irritable in this heat as were he and his men.

  He rode, as always, at the head of the vanguard, setting a steady pace in the wake of his competent scouts. The line of march was ordered much as the Roman legions would once have tramped across enemy territory. First, the pioneers, whose job it was to make a way for the army coming immediate behind – this current stretch of woodland was easier than the past few days, the trees and undergrowth not so dense, so tangled. Sharpened axes and brute strength had been needed over-often on this campaign. Even the women, the whores and their rag-tag scrabble of children, marching within the safety of the baggage, had been required occasionally to help clear the overgrown, neglected Roman roadways running for mile upon mile through these seemingly never-ending woodlands.

  Few rode, except the cavalry. If you could not keep up you were left behind. It was the way of things for an army on the march.

  With the pack-mules and ponies trundled the blacksmiths, the medics, armourers, leather workers. The boys trudged here, Gweir, Arthur’s servant, was luckier than most for he had acquired a pony, rode it proudly, for all the animal’s poor conformation and age. Here too, escorted by a select, experienced guard, travelled the army papers, the paraphernalia of war: maps, details of logistics, a clutter of letters half-read or half-written by the Pendragon.

  Then the Artoriani, the elite, Arthur’s cavalry with the standards and emblems of each turmae, a second forest of fluttering, rustling colour. Beyond the riders, the infantry, the mercenary forces, men whom, had they been fighting in Britain, would have called themselves Cymry. These were an ill assortment, a straggle of volunteers who had, since those first days after landing along the coast of Less Britain, come in small groups or singularly to join with Arthur. Young men and old, freemen and slaves. All seeking a part in the great fight that lay ahead. Beyond necessary question, Arthur never asked from where they came. If a son defied his father or a husband a wife, a slave his master, what cared the Pendragon? He needed the men, their hearts and their loyalty. For that, he asked nothing more than a given name and next of kin if known.

  The rearguard was formed partly of Artoriani, experienced battle-hardened men intermingled with Gauls, those yet to learn. Ecdicius and his small retinue rode proudly here, alongside Arthur’s men. He was proving useful, this adventurous nobleman. Quick to learn, slow to comment. The sort of man Arthur welcomed as an officer and friend.

  Easing his backside in the saddle, Arthur stretched cramped, sore muscles. It had been a long, hot day. A longer, hotter week. Evening would be upon them in an hour or so and the air would cool, thank the gods! Another half-hour on the march and they would make camp. Their last. The morrow would see them at Avaricum, and there the march ended. Arthur had made up his mind. They were going no further. Either the Goths came to him before the ending of the August month, or he would go home. When, he was uncertain, but the decision had come – happen unconsciously, during a dream.

  He had nigh on two thousand men following, eager, behind his red-blazoned Dragon Banner. The men of Riothamus they privately called themselves, those who were not Artoriani, marching with hearts as high as the sky and grins as wide as the Liger River. And at last, word had come that Syagrius was to join them. The King of Soissons was about to move south with his army, would meet the Pendragon at Avaricum.

  Arthur twisted in the saddle, surveyed the column that was his army, listening to the familiar, comforting sounds: the tramp of feet; shouts, chatter and laughter; the occasional oath, a cadence of sound against the background of soft-treaded hoof-beats, the creak of leather, the neighing and braying. He glanced upward at the swathe of bluest sky, hanging bright, unclouded, above the trees. A magpie screeched somewhere to his left, answered by another further ahead. Three days past, the word had come from Syagrius that Euric was again on the move and that he, Syagrius, would be coming with all haste to meet with Arthur. Together, they would put an end to this barbarian scourge.

  A scout was riding in, coming at a trot, sweat glistening on his forehead beneath his war-cap, wet, dark, patches on his mount’s coat. At Avaricum? Hah! Had Syagrius not said the same for Condivicnum, Juliomagus, Caesarodunum? Arthur was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he would believe his one-time friend intended to take part in this thing only when he stood there before him. Even then, Arthur harboured a suspicion that Syagrius had no intention of soiling his own hands with blood.

  The Pendragon returned the scout’s salute, questioned for a report with his expression and eyes.

  “Trees are down, Sir, quarter of a mile ahead.”

  “No way round?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Arthur’s reply was a colourful oath. Did no one travel in this damned country? Did no one consider it might have been prudent to ensure the roadways were kept clear? God’s breath, did not one of these damned Gauls have a brain to think with? Time and again the column had needed to halt while obstacles were cleared from the road. Great trees, fallen, half-rotten, submerged by years of undergrowth. Gape-holed bridges, unsafe, unkempt. Arthur was beginning to believe the whole of Gaul was like this derelict north-western corner. And men like Ambrosius back home, thought Britain was in disrepair? Bull’s blood, Britain was a thriving phoenix compared with this!

  “There is another river ahead also, Sir.” A slight hesitancy in the scout’s voice brought a frown to his king’s features.

  “Go on, surprise me. The bridge is down,” Arthur drawled.

  The scout grinned, raised one hand in surrender. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Sir.”

  Arthur halted the column. God’s holy truth! Why in all Hades had he agreed to come to this bloody country?

  XXIV

  Ragnall was used to keeping herself in the background, away from the forefront. Hers was the world of shadows and half-light, of walking with her head bowed, veil or hood held close, sight cast down. She was ten and six years and had never smiled into a man’s eyes. Never expected to. A girl who was to face the rest of her life as a woman of Christ had no reason to be smiling at mortal men.

  Her father’s voice beyond the closed doorway, was rising, angry, but then her father, Amlawdd, had always been prone to sudden-flared tempers regarding his daughter. It was the disappointment, she supposed. Other fathers could be proud of their daughters, would expect the prospect of a good marriage, a useful alliance, an honoured son-by-law. They would not come for Ragnall. Who would want her as wife?

  She sighed, lifted the rolled parchment from her lap, tried again to read the delicate print of the Gospel. Her sight was not so good, the words faint and small and the voices beyond the Abbess’s closed door too distracting.

  They did not want her here, the holy women. She was an embarrassment. Neither did her father want her. For the same reason �
�� although he also had the guilt and memories to contend with. She rose from the stool, carefully re-rolling the parchment scroll, placed it on the table, walked aimlessly around the room.

  It was functional, but austere and cold, much like the Abbess to whom it belonged. This was the outer, public chamber before her private rooms. No one was allowed in there without invitation, although those few who had been privileged reported that it was no more comfortable. Her fingers fiddled with the one ring she wore, twiddling it absently around and around. Nor did she want to be here, cloistered as a nun with only a duty towards the Christian God to fill these endless days. Ragnall wanted the sun on her face, the wind in her hair. Wanted to love and be loved.

  She looked at the ring. It had been her mother’s, the only thing of hers she possessed, the only thing of importance that she had brought with her from her father’s Hall, six years past when she had been a child of ten. Most of the jewels and fine woven clothing that had once been her mother’s had gone, over the years, to his succession of whores and bed-mates. Aye, and even before her mother’s death had such things been given. They said she had died of an illness. Ragnall could not remember much of her, except her smile, sun-blonde hair and her golden laughter. It had not been illness that killed her, though, she was certain. Her mother had died of despair, for Ragnall was like her mother. They both needed the sweet freedom of the sky and the sun, not the shuttered darkness of binding chains.

  Amlawdd had not loved her mother, no more than he loved her, his daughter. But then, Amlawdd had no love for anyone save himself and the woman he boasted he would have as his, one day. His was a love for greed, lust and gluttony. He loved the Lady Pendragon, he said, few of his stronghold believed his declaration. He wanted her, but wanting was not the same as loving.

  Ragnall paused in her walking before the shut door, studied the iron nail-studs, ring handle and hinges, the oak wood of the panels. This had been alive once, had stood as a great tree in a forest, its branches spread to the sun. Ragnall let her head fall back, her arms spread, imagining the warmth of such a freedom… and the door opened. Ragnall squeaked, leapt back a pace. The Abbess stalked through, her mouth a thin line of disapproval, her double chin firm, set.

  “You see,” she said, brandishing her arm at Ragnall. “The child is possessed. Her mind is not in this earthly world, nor is it in God’s. I cannot tolerate her here any longer.”

  Amlawdd trotted behind, red-faced, blustering, still arguing. “I pay you enough, damn it, for her keep. You’ve been happy to take my gold!”

  The Lady Branwen turned imperiously to face him. “Even were you to double the sum I would not keep her. Her disruptiveness is harming the peaceful nature of my convent. She must go.”

  “And to where must I send her? To a brothel perhaps?” If Amlawdd intended to shock the Abbess it did not work. Lady Branwen merely scowled, turned to Ragnall and grasped her chin, tilting the girl’s head painfully up, back, her eyes scrutinising the scarred and puckered skin, the one undamaged eye. “Even the basest of whores need something beyond their sex to draw a man.”

  Branwen had seen much ugliness and unpleasantness during her life. At least here, secluded as Abbess of the Convent of Mary the Mother at Yns Witrin, she was spared many of the horrors of the outside world. The girl, Ragnall, was too much a reminder of the Devil’s work. She had tried, God knows, Branwen had tried to tolerate her rebelliousness, had tried to ignore the ugliness of those dreadful scars, But no more, no more!

  In her own turn, Ragnall had no wish to stay in the gloom of this place, but there was nowhere else to go. She begged, “Have I not been of use to you all these years?” She held out her hands, one with long, slender fingers the other as twisted and gnarled as an ancient oak tree’s roots. Pleaded, “Half my body was disfigured by the flames of the fire I fell into, but half is untouched, capable. I can read and I can sew. I have tended the gardens, sown and reaped the corn. My voice joins well with the songs of God… ”

  Branwen held up her hand for silence. “You manage to do all these things, I agree. But you have never willingly and obediently done them. Your disfigured body, child, completes these tasks while your mind is far from prayers and God.” Lady Branwen folded her hands inside the sleeves of her black robe. The matter was ended.

  “Your daughter will leave here, my Lord Amlawdd, when you do, at the ending of this called Council.” She swept to the door, opened it wide. Angry, Amlawdd strode through, disappeared across the courtyard beyond, his oaths trailing in his wake.

  Ragnall dipped a reverence to the Abbess, walked through the door, which shut with an unalterable finality the moment she was through.

  There would be many more people arriving on the morrow – indeed, already the little town was swelling with important visitors. Ambrosius Aurelianus, the Governor of all Britain, had called for his Council to meet here on the Glass Isle. Happen one of them would take pity on a girl with nowhere to go.

  Ragnall sighed, walked across the courtyard with her head bowed, her hood pulled well forward, but she doubted it.

  XXV

  Cadwy stood watching as the man dismounted, exchanged polite greeting with the Abbot awaiting him in the crowded courtyard. Ambrosius turned, their eyes met, Cadwy betraying in that first, unguarded instant the pleading to be accepted, loved, for what he was, not condemned for what he was not. His father’s eye mirrored, just briefly, that same echo from the heart. Quickly veiled, shuttered, behind the stern exterior.

  Clearing his throat, Ambrosius began to walk towards the group awaiting him on the steps of the new, wooden-built, basilica building. The difficulties of formality, the intricacies. He was here at Yns Witrin, neutral ground, to meet with the Council of all Britain, ostensibly to persuade the chieftains and landowners to supply the men he needed to join against the growing menace from the Cantii Saxons. Primarily, he was here to assert his authority. Made all the more difficult by the woman standing central among the men and the disconcerting, unexpected presence of his son beside her. Mastering a calmness that he did not feel, Ambrosius approached Gwenhwyfar. She had always been a slender woman, but now, after being so ill, her body was thin, the skin like paper over bones, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. At another time he might have shown concern, but not here, not before these people. Inclining his head to her as he mounted the steps, he did nothing more to acknowledge her, the rightful Queen, stepped instead, one pace to the right to greet Amlawdd, lord of the coastal lands to the north west of this, the Glass Isle.

  As Ambrosius intended, Amlawdd’s pleasure at being singled in this way was obvious. He had always been a proud, if somewhat slow-witted man, but he had ambition. A fact which Ambrosius fully intended to trade upon. Pleased, Amlawdd knelt in public homage, an act reserved normally for a liege lord, for the King. Furious, Gwenhwyfar made to step forward, to protest.

  Cadwy took her arm, shook his head, mouthed a warning. Instead, it was he who moved, thrusting his weight onto his sound leg to counterbalance the lameness, he who said, loud, so all might hear, “My lord Aurelianus, the Queen asks me to speak for her, to offer her welcome to this, her Council.”

  Amlawdd jumped up, his face reddening. Glancing apprehensively at Gwenhwyfar, he wiped his sweating palms down the front of his fine-woven woollen tunic. He had been at the wrong end of her sword blade once before. Once was enough! A hush fell over the gathered men, the elders, chieftains, high-born traders and merchantmen, the freeborn who served by election or birth on the Great Council. In the courtyard too, a silence fell among the men and-women who had come to Yns Witrin to seek God and be witness to the deliberations of Council, though not necessarily in that order of preference. The Abbot, the highest ranking official of this cluster of buildings that was firmly establishing itself as a holy-community settlement, bustled forward to protest, was stilled by a hand-motion from Ambrosius.

  Passive, he half-turned, again inclined his head in Gwenhwyfar’s direction. To her, ignoring Cadwy, he said, “You will, naturall
y, forgive my forwardness in the calling of this Council without representation to you. A woman who has been as ill, as I believe you to have been, would not, I assumed, have had the physical strength to attend, let alone lead a battle campaign.”

  Tawny sparks flashed against the green of Gwenhwyfar’s eyes, a sharp retort hovered on her lips, but she bit the anger down. He was right, curse him, she had not much strength and would never be able to lead men against Vitolinus. She was damned if he was going to usurp her position before all these important men though! She held his eyes a heartbeat longer, then, smiling, addressed Amlawdd.

  “It is good, my Lord, that you are so eager to lend your sword in the defence of my husband’s kingdom.” Her smile so encouraging, so intensely false. To Ambrosius, to them all, “I will be sure to inform the Pendragon of your loyalty when he returns.”

  A few nervous coughs, shuffling of feet, no one daring to meet her eye as she cast around the embarrassed faces.

  “Has there been further news on that matter then, my Lady?” Ambrosius queried. “Is the Pendragon to abandon this foolish quest and resume his rightful duties here, in his own lands?”

  Several gasped, including Gwenhwyfar and Cadwy.

  So easy, so subtle. Ambrosius smiled, as easily and as falsely as Gwenhwyfar. He climbed the last two steps, walking through the parting men, entered through the doorway of the building that had been constructed upon his orders solely for the purpose of this meeting. Men filed after him, skirting their way around Gwenhwyfar, averting their eyes from her, looking at their feet, their neighbour, the way ahead, any direction save at her. The wife of the Pendragon, the King who had just, with those few words, lost his kingdom.