Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

XXVI

  Evening was settling, the remnant of the afternoon’s rain-clouds scudding over the bruise-purple sky. The wind was rising, Cadwy could hear its voice growing more insistent among the clusters of tossing trees. The small holy settlement snuggled at the foot of the great Tor was already preparing for night; the last meal taken, doors closing firm against the coming darkness.

  Cadwy knew Gwenhwyfar had gone up the Tor. He had seen her setting out, going up the rain-puddled lane, her cloak wrapped tight about her shoulders, wisps of copper-gold hair escaping her hood. She was so frail, so thin. He had watched her as she had stepped onto the miz-maze path that made its ancient pattern up and around the place of the Goddess. Was she still up there? He could not see onto the summit for his sight was not as sharp as it ought to be. Distances were a blur, a fuzzed-edged picture. There was a tall, tall, standing stone up there, nestling among a few smaller ones, black against the fading colour of the sky. He knew it was there, for he had heard of it, but see it he could not.

  Would she come down before night descended? Ought he attempt to find her? Did she want to be found? She had been weeping as she walked, that also he knew, by instinct more than sight. She had gone up there to seek solitude and healing. Would not want him hobbling after her. Cadwy sighed, began the weary trudge back along the muddied lane. She would not want his poor attempts at comfort.

  Below this incline, nestled in the sheltered hollows beneath the Tor, huddled the Christian settlement, the dwelling-places, shops and taverns that had sprung up around the enclosing walls of the abbey with its attendant cloisters, and the smaller, wattle-built chapel dedicated to Mary the Mother.

  The lane ahead scuttled under a tangle of droop-branched, overgrown trees, their foliage, black against the greying sky, casting wary shadows beneath. Cadwy jerked to a halt, head up, nostrils flaring, scenting the wind. Something had moved, something other than the wind-swaying shadows. A darker shape rose from a huddled clump; Cadwy peered into the gloom beneath those suddenly unfriendly trees. This was a pagan place, the Tor of Yns Witrin, a place of magic and fear and superstition – aye, despite the resident community who insisted it now belonged to the Christian God. The Old Ones, Cadwy secretly thought, were not to be so easily dislodged.

  “Who walks there?” he called, his voice commanding, impatient. A feint to mask his fear. “Who watches me?”

  “Only God, and myself. You have nothing to fear from either of us.” A young woman’s voice. Sweet, soft, a hint of rare-used laughter. Cadwy’s heartbeat doubled. A lady? The Lady?

  The priestesses of the Mother Goddess had once had their sanctuary here, at the base of the Tor, near where the lake lay, dark and silent, even in the driest of summers. This too, had been the place of the Underworld god, Avallach. There were doorways, it was said, that led from the Tor down into his dark kingdom. Cadwy took a steadying breath. There was no Avallach, only the one, Christian God. And the last Lady had gone, years past, drowned, they insisted, in the pagan waters of her Goddess. Summoning courage, he stepped forward, one single, lame pace. “Show yourself. Why need you hide in the shadows if you mean no harm?”

  She sounded young, a girl just passed into womanhood. Her voice reminded him of summer-warm evenings scented by honeysuckle and roses. “I do not hide, I was merely waiting for you.” It was a half-truth for she had not intended to show herself, was waiting for him to pass. Something involuntary had made her move, though, some urging inside her that had run away with her sense.

  He could see her now, her cloaked body blending with the shadows, her face hidden by a hood pulled well forward. He pointed at her with his crutch, a crude gesture of defence. Surely this was some night-creature, some pagan deity come back with the fall of night to do mischief?

  “It is a late hour for a woman to be out alone,” he said stiffly.

  She ignored his censure, said, “Your father has men looking for you. He wishes to speak with you.”

  “And you came looking for me? Up here?”

  There was a smile in her voice as she answered. “No, but since we have unexpectedly met, there is no reason why I ought not give you the message.”

  The explanation was simple. Earthbound. Cadwy’s fear dissipated, he felt a little foolish. Pagan spirit? She was nothing more than a noviciate from the Convent of Our Lady Mary! He lowered his crutch, his pathetic weapon, settled it beneath his arm. So they were searching for him? Let them look! He had no wish to speak with his father. This night, or ever.

  “Anger can be a two-edged sword, my Lord. Its bite difficult to heal unless tended straight’way.”

  Cadwy started. How did she know of his inner anger? How could she perceive his stomach was a tight, clutching knot of rage and shame? The superstitious fear began niggling again.

  “We, all of us,” she added matter-of-factly, “feel the pain our fathers unwittingly inflict. But do we not, in our own lifetime, give as many wounds as we receive?”

  The clouds, ragged-edged, shape-shifting, were running before the blustering wind, sailing faster across a background sea of dark, night-blue sky. Suddenly the moon came up, her full roundness opening from behind the blackness of the Tor, her light blossoming against the backdrop of night, her pale silver-brightness sparkling. Shadows leapt like a mettlesome horse suddenly allowed its head, their shapes changing, then settling, quivering beneath the gentle caress of soft light. The moon, the chariot of the Goddess.

  Cadwy made to walk on, but the path was mud-bound, slippery, his lame-legged foot went from beneath him and he toppled forward onto one knee, cursing beneath his breath.

  Ragnall darted forward to help him, her hand going to his arm. “Take care, my Lord,” she said, concerned, “this path is notorious for its bad footing after rain. ‘Tis impassable in some weathers, most especially when the ice comes after the snow.”

  He was grateful to her tact, they both knew it was his clumsiness that had made him fall. Bless her, most others would laugh, mock his unsteadiness.

  Voices, male, coming nearer, breath panting as they came up the incline. The light of their torches, needed beneath the trees, bouncing and spluttering, swallowed the softness of the fragile moon-shadows, frightening away that suspended moment of magic. Three men in the uniform of Ambrosius came busily around the bend of the lane.

  Cadwy glanced briefly at them then back with curiosity at the girl who was also looking to the newcomers. He gasped, his hand coming, unbidden, to his mouth. The flickering torchlight had struck full upon her features, the crevices of skin, the tight scars, twisted mouth and puckered, sightless eye. Bile rose to Cadwy’s throat as, in that single fleeting second, he saw the hideousness of Ragnall’s distorted face.

  To his shame, he fled, hobble-running past the men, pushing them aside, slithering in the mud-ruts, breath sobbing in his throat. Certain she had, after all, been a creature of the Old Ones.

  It was only later, much later, in the quiet stillness before dawn he saw, in his sleep-troubled mind, the tears that had welled from her other eye. Pale, moon-silvered tears that had splashed from the side of her face untouched by whatever damage had caused so much suffering. An eye so wide and so lovely.

  XXVII

  The Tor was a safe place for Ragnall; its solitude and peace surrounded her with the comfort of love that she so desperately needed. For all their conviction that the Glass Isle was now a place of the Christian God, the spirits of its older name, Yns Witrin, still lingered up on the great height of the Tor. You could hear them, the echoes of their whispering, if you knew where and how to listen. It was the place of the female, the Tor, a woman’s place, where the Goddess listened to the tears or laughter of her daughters.

  The path was steep, slippery from the recent rain, but Ragnall climbed with the confidence of familiarity. Nor did she mind the night. She was happier in the dark for none could see her ugliness where there was no light. Up here, where the wind sang and the stars were only a fingertip’s touch away, Ragnall could feel beautiful. The Goddess did
not judge a woman for her sins, only for what she was: a daughter of life.

  The Abbess, Branwen, would have had the girl whipped raw, or worse, had she known of her coming here, but Ragnall took care none should discover it – easily done for few paid much heed to her. The Christian God and His followers, Ragnall felt, professed love to all save the pagan and the deformed.

  She stopped as she neared the crest of the path, took time to slow her breathing. The wind would be strong once she crossed from this sheltered side to the open summit. She would need her breath out there.

  A few years back she had been shown these paths, introduced to the freedoms that the Tor gave, by the one who had then lived here. Morgaine her name had been, the Lady of the Lake, last priestess to the Goddess. She had been Ragnall’s only friend – they were mutual friends, both outcasts, both feared for their difference. When she had gone, with the boy-child she had borne three years past, Ragnall had felt desolate. She had almost taken that most precious thing, her own life, but the Goddess had comforted her with her songs that whispered in the wind, and Ragnall had faced her loneliness, sure that one day, one day, she would be able to dance in the sunlight. She missed Morgaine, but understood why she had found the need to go. Ragnall alone knew where she had gone. Not even the child’s father had the knowing of that. Aye, and Morgaine had confided that detail also. Who the father of her son was.

  Ragnall stepped out from the shelter of the hill, her cloak and hair billowing as the wind screamed past her. She laughed, exhilarated by the force, the passion of its passing. Laughed, because they would all be so shocked were she ever to tell them of that knowledge. What a nest of ants it would stir! She would never tell though, never betray her only friend, Morgaine, and the trust of the Goddess.

  She had to lean forward against the buffeting wind, head bowed, to make her way along the ridge to where the tall Stone lunged up towards the cloud-ragged sky; did not see the other woman there, leaning against its timeless solidity. Both saw each other almost at the same moment, both gasped in instinctive alarm. The woman by the Stone dropped her hand to her side, drew a sword blade that, although shorter and lighter than a man’s weapon looked nonetheless deadly. The Goddess must have been watching, for she tossed her protection, sent a tendril of wind scurrying through this woman’s cloak, hurling it around her arm, trapping the bright blade among its folds, giving Ragnall a small moment to catch her wits.

  “You startled me,” she confessed. “It is rare to meet another up here.”

  “The Christian kind do not venture this far,” Gwenhwyfar replied, uncertain, wary, attempting to distinguish, unsuccessfully, who this woman could be. Decided on forthright attack. “I am Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon. Who might you be, and what do you here?” She had untangled her sword, held it downward, the blade glinting softly under the scudding moonlight.

  “I live within the shelter of the Holy Sisters’ place, but I am here for the same reason as you.” Ragnall lifted her head higher, uncaring whether the scars showed on her face up here, where nothing of the real world mattered. “I come to face my grief, to let it run loose, unfettered, where none will judge or condemn.”

  For a long moment Gwenhwyfar regarded the girl, seeing, in the fleeting cloud-shadows, a hint of the damage to her face. Her thoughts this past hour had taken the twists and turns of the lonely and frightened, skimming through doubts of the future, regrets of the past. Touching on laughter, lingering on tears. The smiles of her sons, the grief that had befallen them. And the fear, the thundering fear that hammered for her husband. She had been thinking, standing with her back against the cold of the granite Stone, of the last time she had stood up here on the Tor. Llacheu, her first-born, had been growing in her womb then. She had been staying with the Holy Sisters too, but had sought the presence of the Goddess to heal her fragility, the damage that had been done to her. How the circle turned!

  Gwenhwyfar smiled, slid her sword back into the safe keeping of the scabbard slung at her waist, held her palms wide in peace and friendship. “There are not many of us,” she said, “who remember it is the Mother who is the first to comfort our tears, not the Father.”

  The Tor was a lonely place, by night or day. It squatted, rising high above the levels that were water-bound by winter, marsh and grazing land by summer. Floating like an island among the swirls of white, morning mist, or lazily drowsing beneath the cricket-chirruping heat of a summer sun. It sat, brooding the cluster of lesser hills about its skirts, benignly watching, like an indulgent mother, the blunderings of Man scuttling beneath its gaze. A lonely place, but a place where, if you cared to listen with your heart not look with your eyes, you could find love and contentment, given without condition.

  Two women seeking the sanctuary of its healing calm. Gwenhwyfar, weary, heartsore and frightened for her husband and daughter, sat companionably and silent beside Ragnall, who nursed the same fears for herself. Together, they watched the stars wheel across the sky. Shared the beautiful colours of the new day, their backs leaning against the tallest Stone that had stood, almost since time began, on the summit of this hill where, surely, the gods, whoever they were, had once walked and shed in their footsteps the patterns of peace.

  XXVIII

  Cadwy found his father in the chapel of Mary the Mother. The hour was early, the sun barely a hint in the rain-whisping sky. Cadwy waited at the rear of the small, square-built place. If his father, kneeling at the altar a few yards away, knew his son to be there he made no sign. Ambrosius expressed no surprise, however, as, his prayer finished, he rose and turned, suppressing a wince of pain from joints that protested at the kneeling and bending. Of course, he would have known the man entering the chapel to be Cadwy. He would have heard the shuffle of a lame foot, the tap of a wooden crutch.

  “I sent to speak with you last night.” For all the moderation in his father’s tone, Cadwy still heard admonishment, criticism.

  “I was about other matters,” he retorted.

  Ambrosius shot his son a speculative look as he walked past, heading for the doorway. What would his son be doing? Where had he gone? He had not been in either of the two taverns, nor anywhere within the small town. Could he have been at the brothel a mile outside? Mentally, Ambrosius dismissed the thought as nonsense, opened the door but did not pass through.

  “I think it time, Cadwy.” Again, Ambrosius tried to ensure that his voice was mild, friendly. “Time for you to leave Caer Cadan. To come home, with me.”

  “Why?” A single, short-made answer. Full of rebellion.

  Ambrosius sighed, shut the door again. He walked to the first line of wooden benches, moving slowly for his knees were sorely aching this morning. “Because I ask it. Is that not enough?”

  Cadwy remained silent, glowering.

  Seating himself, Ambrosius ignored the obstinacy. “People are talking.”

  “I see. ‘Tis the tongue-wagging that annoys you.”

  Shaking his head slowly, taking deep breaths to remain calm, Ambrosius rubbed his hands along his thighs. The palms were sticky, sweating. His head was beginning to thump too. He did not want to argue with his son, did not. Very patient: “Aye, talk bothers me, for it is malicious talk, lies, most of it, I trust.”

  Cadwy’s head came up, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. What did he mean? That Cadwy had shamed him, shamed himself? “I have done nothing to offend you – save fall prey to an illness that left me twisted and useless in your sight.” His gaze bore into his father’s face, directly offering a challenge to deny it. “At Caer Cadan I am valued.”

  Ambrosius could not help it. He laughed.

  Coldly, Cadwy asked, “What do you want from me, Father? To take what I have found? Why? I have been happier this short while at Caer Cadan than ever I have living under your indifference… ”

  For the first time in many years, Ambrosius looked at his son and saw him for what he was, a young man of ten and nine years, tall, like all of this line, with a slightly over-long nos
e set against high, firm cheek-bones. Dark eyes, dark hair. Cadwy looked much like his mother, yet he had the similarities of the Pendragon blood too. He supposed those male characteristics marked him to be like himself, Ambrosius – Cadwy’s father, Uthr’s brother – Arthur’s uncle. The passion in his son’s words hit home. Ambrosius paled, his skin crawling, chalk-white, though sweat trickled down his back, pricked his forehead, upper lip. Christ’s good soul! Was it true, then? All of it? Swallowing bile, he stammered what he had intended to say to the son of his flesh.

  “I need support. I need loyal men beside me, behind me.” Again he swallowed. “I need the respect granted to a warlord.” This was not easy, begging for his son to come back to him. “I need you with me, Cadwy. It looks bad that you are with the Queen not with me.”

  “So, you resent my happiness.”

  “I did not say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I imply nothing save what is spoken or thought by others.”

  “Of course, you would take leave to listen to them rather than myself.”

  This was getting out of hand, becoming nonsense. “I want you…“ Ambrosius spoke slowly, trying to keep the quiver of anger from his asking, “I want you to be sensible, responsible. When I leave to put the Saxon Vitolinus back into his place, I need to have someone I can trust to speak for me. Someone of my flesh, my blood.” He tossed a challenging glance. “I have no choice, I have only you. I cannot trust you, however, while you bed in Gwenhwyfar’s Hall. You must leave Caer Cadan. ‘Tis fortunate that communication is travelling slow and with great difficulty, for if the Pendragon should hear of these rumours… ”

  Then Cadwy laughed, head tossing back, clenched fists resting on his hips. “Oh, I see, I understand it all now!” He propped his crutch beneath his arm, leant his weight on it. “If Arthur hears the rumour I am tumbling his wife, he just might be incensed enough to abandon Gaul and come racing back to relieve me of my balls! You’d not be happy with that would you?” He laughed again, genuinely amused. “The matter of me keeping my manhood intact is naught, for you are convinced my lameness makes me a gelding anyway. Ah no, it is this other thing you fear. You have not yet secured enough power to ensure Arthur cannot fight his way back into Britain. And Vitolinus will sorely drain your resources.” He made for the doorway, cast it wide open, limped through, his father following a few paces behind. “I am almost tempted to lie, to say I am indeed bedding the Queen, only I would never so dishonour my Lady Gwenhwyfar.”