Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  She offered her sword and tipped her face up to her husband’s uncle, the man who was proclaiming himself as Supreme Governor of all Britain. Her voice did not quaver as she spoke, her words winging, clear and regal. “We have our differences, my lord Aurelianus, angers that will never be quenched. In absolute loyalty to my lord Pendragon I cannot, nor will not, acknowledge you as Supreme Lord.”

  “But I am, undeniably, in command of this Council of judgement this day,” Ambrosius countered. Murmurings from the watching crowd, a few hands applauding, nods of agreement.

  Briefly, Gwenhwyfar inclined her head. “You are, undeniably, about to command the murder of an innocent – and that of the rightful Queen, wife to Arthur the Pendragon.”

  The murmurs rose in volume, excited chatter, speculation. Ambrosius was about to deny such an outrageous charge, but Gwenhwyfar did not give him opportunity.

  “But then,” she continued, “that would suit your ambition, would it not? To be rid of me so easily.” Her smile, directed solely at him, was taunting. There were many things she disliked about Ambrosius Aurelianus, many a reason that she could find in her heart to justify his end – but, she knew, for all that dislike, he was a fair man, no murderer of women.

  His answer was honest. “I have no wish to be rid of you, only your husband.”

  Hers was as direct. “I am Arthur’s wife. You need be rid of me.”

  Declining to argue the point, Ambrosius flapped his hand. “Neither have I a taste for murder.” A doubt flickered in his mind. Was that the truth? He would gladly have Gwenhwyfar sent somewhere in safe keeping, somewhere a long distance off, but na, he would not have her murdered. He held his hand out, intending to raise her up.

  She ignored the gesture. “If you order the brutal killing of this young woman, Ambrosius, then you must burn me beside her, for we are equal in guilt, if guilt it be, to walk in innocence on the Tor of Yns Witrin.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Lady Branwen, impatient at this playacting, annoyed at the interference, came to her feet. Ordered, “You interrupt a court of law. Be gone!”

  With slow dignity, Gwenhwyfar stood. Her height was taller than the Abbess, her poise and dignity the more acute. A willow against Branwen’s elm. Once, Gwenhwyfar had feared her, when she was a child at home in Gwynedd. No longer. She felt only pity now for Branwen.

  Ragnall’s trembling had eased at Gwenhwyfar’s entering, relief filling her. She knew not how this woman could save her, only that through the night they had sat together companionably, listening to the distant, comforting, heartbeat of the ancient Goddess, sharing their secrets and pain. As the Abbess spoke, however, the fear began its insistent quivering again. She dared not glance up, dared not lift her head. Instead, she curled smaller, foetal, the tears brimming from her undamaged eye.

  Gwenhwyfar asked, “What charge is brought?”

  Branwen answered tersely, although it had been Ambrosius Gwenhwyfar had addressed. “The charge of consorting with the Devil.”

  Gwenhwyfar raised an eyebrow at the woman. “Your evidence?”

  Without hesitation, using spite-ridden words, Branwen retorted, “She was caught walking on forbidden heathen ground.”

  Gwenhwyfar laughed, her head back, hands going to her hips. “Then aye, you must burn me also! I was with Ragnall for all the night. It was I who took her up onto the summit of Yns Witrin.” She glanced around the crowded Council chamber, her stare lingering across one or two known faces. “I would warrant in the days when the Lady resided here, many a man in this audience found his way across the lake onto the Tor.” A few men laughed, echoing her amusement. “My lord Ambrosius, if such be the charge against this young woman, then there will, I think, be quite an array of us condemned to this fire of yours!”

  More laughter. The tension had eased. This whole thing exposed so easily for the ludicrous sham it was.

  Affronted, irate that the sway of opinion had shifted, Branwen begged Ambrosius to intervene, to command silence. Persisted with her intent. “This girl bears the marks of God’s cursing.” Roughly, she dragged Ragnall to her feet to show again, publically, those hideous scars.

  Gwenhwyfar bit down a repulsive shudder. Ragnall had told her, out there in the hiding darkness, of her injuries and of how she had come by them, but she had not seen for herself, under the cloak of darkness. She managed to mask her reaction, thrust a moment of panic aside. God’s truth, how could she proceed with this next thing? The girl was indeed hideous… yet her nature was gentle, her voice sweet, her laughter infectious. She must go on, for she was too far along the road to turn back! It might not be winning for Arthur, but even some small, insignificant victory over Ambrosius would mean much.

  She turned, slowly, deliberately sought out Cadwy, who had so hopefully followed her through the crowd, was standing at the forefront, anxious, concerned, angry at his father’s part in this. Why, though, was he so fearful for a girl he had met but the once? A girl from whom he had recoiled because of her deformity. Because of guilt and a heavy conscience? He had behaved shamefully to her, reacted exactly as others often did to himself.

  Gwenhwyfar directed her words to the crowd. Her eyes to Ambrosius. “Do we then, burn all who bear the scars of misfortune?”

  Aurelianus caught his breath, saw this other trap neatly set, with no way to escape.

  “Commit Ragnall to burn, Ambrosius, for these prejudices, and you so commit your son.”

  Uproar. Branwen calling for a right to issue punishment for offences against God. Those of Council and interested spectators shouting her down.

  Beneath the tumult, Gwenhwyfar spoke quiet words to Ambrosius. He listened, nodded once. Aye, it was as she said, it was the law. Although, for Ragnall, he could see it doing naught but making a bad situation worse.

  Gwenhwyfar stepped aside, her part done, her mouth dry. Now it was for others to do and say.

  “Hear me! Hear me!” Ambrosius called for order, called again, and a third time. Quiet was slow to descend, but gradually it fell.

  “Hear me!” Gruff, reluctant, they listened. “There is but one way to settle this. By law no maiden can stand condemned if a man be willing to take her into his protection.” Ambrosius paused, let his gaze slide over the men present. “Will any here take Ragnall as wife?”

  Gasps, shouts of incredulity – some of horror and outrage. Ragnall herself looked up, her mouth open, shocked. Then laughter came and derision, fingers pointing, men mocking. Shamed, Ragnall dipped her head, fought back new tears of humiliation.

  It was her own father who laughed the loudest, he who called, “Have her as wife? That hideous creature?” His amusement rang to the rafters. “No man would be so much the fool.”

  “I would.”

  The silence fell as rapidly as a thunderbolt. All eyes turned to Cadwy. He came forward, stood before the girl, took her unscarred hand in his own, tipped her head and, balancing his crutch, gently wiped aside her tears. “I would have her as wife.”

  Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, silently concluding a prayer. If Cadwy had not responded as she had bargained… Ah well, was life not one long sigh of “if “?

  June 469

  XXXII

  Arthur stifled a yawn. He had slept badly again and now had to sit listening to this imbecile whining about lost slaves. Several times he found his mind wandering, the despair and aching loss hammering persistent in his brain and heart.

  “And, so my lord,” the little man stammered, anxiously twisting his woollen cap around and around in his fingers, “if you could, in your royal benevolence, but see your way to… ” He trailed off, fiddled more earnestly with his headgear. Exactly how did a mere farmer command a king to return his slaves?

  Rubbing tired eyes with the fingers of one hand, Arthur reread the letter held in his other, trying to concentrate, to blot out the memory of those words spoken two weeks past. He groaned. Why could the Bishop Sidonius Apollinaris never write plainly? All this flowery, meandering language and exaggerat
ed flattery. “I am a direct witness of the conscientiousness which weighs on you so heavily, and which has always been of such delicacy as to make you blush for the wrongdoing of others.” What a piled heap of bullshit!

  “Your benefactor is mistaken,” Arthur stated blandly. “I have no interest whatsoever in the laws and justice of this country, beyond that which affects my men.”

  Arthur read on, added, “I also have been informed, on many occasions, that I have no conscience or morals. A strong king cannot afford the first, and I have never been over impressed by the latter.” Arthur read on, scanning the second paragraph, let the parchment roll up on itself and took up the leather-bound book from the table beside him, an accompanying gift from Sidonius. A small volume, its rough-cut parchment pages well stitched, bound between a stiffened leather cover, the text carefully copied in lines of neat handwriting. The Carmina, a publication of the Bishop’s prolific poetry. Arthur frowned at the thing. Was he expected to read it? He had no use for such egotistic prattlings. As if it were some everyday wax-tablet communication, Arthur tossed the book across the width of his tent to Bedwyr, who sat cross-legged consuming a second bowl of breakfast on Arthur’s rumpled bed. The book fell short, fell to the floor; a page loosened by the discourteous handling, fluttering out. “You have time to read, cousin, you have the thing,” Arthur declared.

  The farmer had followed the book’s trajectory with his sorrowful eyes, his mouth curving deeper into a drooping expression of despair as it fell. Books were expensive items, he had never even seen one until this day. All he wanted was his slaves back and to return forthwith to his farm. It was only a small, unassuming place, situated fifty miles south of Avaricum, but it was pleasant, bordering the banks of the river Allia. And it prospered. For several years running the harvest had been good, yielding a high crop of grain and grape. At least, it had prospered until this British man came here with his army.

  These past months, as Arthur had marched along the course of the Liger, young men in their hundreds had deserted the land to flock to join with Riothamus. All well and good for the free-born, but when the slaves ran off, who was there left to do the work? In desperation, the smaller landowners had put their enjoined case before the newly consecrated Bishop of Augustonemtum. Sidonius had been most sympathetic, but not exactly helpful. In this little man’s private opinion, written letters never achieved as much as the spoken word. Now, if only the eloquent Bishop were standing here in the King of Britain’s command tent… No doubt the good Bishop thought himself correct to urge that Riothamus was a fair-minded man, that a case of wrongdoing, if put before him, would be judiciously and impartially judged. But the farmer wondered, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot, whether the Bishop truly understood the reality of situations. He was not an educated man, he was a farmer, he could not read or write, nor was he assertive or vocal. He farmed his land, raised his sons, kept himself to himself; but even he could see he was going to get nowhere because this British king was not the amiable, courteous, gallant man Sidonius had expressed him to be.

  As each minute passed he began to wish fervently he had never allowed himself to be persuaded to come here. Never had he seen so many men encamped in one place. More than two thousand, he had been told. Why, even when the local folk gathered back home their number of twenty and four seemed a huge crowd! But all this, the noise, the bustle – the stench! And they all seemed such large, boisterous men. Several times he had been buffeted – they assured him accidentally – as he came through the throng of tents and men. He was only a humble man, was finding the enormity of everything quite beyond him. Nor did it help matters that this man, Arthur, was known to have been fostering foul, black moods these last weeks. Word had been passed around, even as far as his humble farm-steading, of the King’s loss, of the message from Britain, telling of his wife’s mortal illness. It was sad to lose a wife – he himself had lost three – but death was a part of life and had to be accepted. To the farmer’s modest opinion, it was not fitting for a man to grieve so long for a mere woman. A day or two of public mourning was quite sufficient, a Mass spoken, some gift in her name made to the Holy Church. But this excessive reaction? Unfitting, unnecessary. There were, after all, plenty of women to fill an empty bed-place.

  “There are no runaway slaves within my army, I assure you,” Arthur stated. “If you were careless enough to allow them to escape, well,” he spread his hands, expressive, his meaning unspoken. “They will be long gone by now. Saxons, were they?” He did not wait for answer. “Scuttled back to their homeland, I would warrant.” He was lying, but then the Pendragon was a proficient liar.

  “I beg your pardon,” the farmer blurted, becoming desperate, “I know they came to you.”

  Arthur said nothing.

  Emboldened, the farmer continued with his contradiction. “A few of your officers rode by way of my farm many weeks past. They were recruiting, they said.” He nodded his head sharply, as if to emphasise so what do you think of that? “Within a day, my slaves had gone! Vanished! Stole out in the night.” Gloomily, he added, “They took some bags of grain and baked bread with them too.” For good measure, finished, “And some of my best wine.”

  Mithras’ blood, Arthur thought, save me from such imbeciles! “Do you think, then, that some of these men who intend to fight with me, to save your lands and your farms, have been lenient with the truth about where they came from?”

  The farmer missed the sarcasm, mistakenly took the statement as compliant acquiescence. Eagerly he nodded; then cast a slow, conspiratory glance over his shoulder, took one, bold step forward. He licked his lips.

  Anticipating a shared secret, Arthur leant forward from his stool. “I think,” the farmer opined in a loud whisper, again glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one else aside the King and his cousin were listening, though the tent was empty save for the three of them, “I think your officers deliberately enticed away my slaves!”

  Feigning incredulity Arthur sat back, a shocked expression to his face, “Surely not?”

  The farmer nodded, once. Triumphant.

  “Would you know these officers again? Recognise them?” Arthur questioned, leaning forward.

  “Oh aye, I clearly recall all four. I even saw two of them as I made way through your encampment!” Emboldened, the farmer straddled his legs, folded his arms. “Most distinctive they all were. One had a scar running from here to here.” The farmer brought his finger down his cheek, from eye to chin. “And another was dressed in a wolf-skin, an older man, craggy-faced. Too old for effective fighting, I would wager.” The farmer shook his head. What hope had the citizens of this fair province when they were protected by a rabble such as this? Enticers of slaves, old men, a king reported to blub like a child every night because of the loss of a wife! He sighed. They needed real soldiers, legions, the Eagles. Euric, this barbarian, would not have dared linger so long had the soldiers of Rome been here in Gaul. Ah, real, proper soldiers they had been!

  Arthur looked to Bedwyr, commanded he find these two officers, bring them without delay to his presence. His lazy smile was reassuring.

  The farmer relaxed. Had he misjudged this Riothamus? Was he about to give justice after all?

  It was some ten minutes before two men ducked through the tent opening and saluted, followed at heel by Bedwyr who again seated himself comfortably on Arthur’s bed. His face, like the King’s, was impassive, but the laughter was there, bubbling almost beyond control beneath the surface, sparkling in his eyes.

  One of the officers was indeed rugged of face and as tough-looking as old leather. He wore a shabby, but much loved wolf-skin. He was Mabon, a trusted, long-serving, loyal man who had also served Uthr Pendragon, Arthur’s father. The other officer was younger, but as loyal. Mabon spoke first, his face thrusting forward, eyes scowling, expression as fierce as the wolf-head that served as his cloak hood. “The others are hunting my Lord King, for this night’s supper.”

  Arthur nodded curtly, wasted no fur
ther time with formalities. He addressed the farmer, pointing his hand at the two officers. “Are these the two?”

  “Aye, I would recognise them anywhere.” Proud of his personal achievement the farmer stood, arms folded, chin jutting. “I saw them speak to my slaves – enticing them away!”

  The Pendragon’s voice came harsh, a bark of contempt and wrath. Frightened, the farmer scrabbled backwards a pace or two. “Then I trust you are no more than a fool, not a deliberate mischief-maker intent on wasting my time!” Arthur bounced to his feet, came menacingly close. The man backed away further, mouth opening and closing, speechless, eyes bulging. Arthur’s anger was in full spate. Gods! They had begged him, these people of Gaul to come here, pleaded for his help! All these months he had trailed in the wake of the ineptitude of this country’s damned government, had been promised, and promised again, the reinforcements he so needed to get this thing finished and done with – promised support, financing… all of it empty words spouting from empty breaths. Those few who saw sense, who recognised the reality of Euric’s cold shadow blotting the sun, had willingly joined him – aye, and those few who were not free to choose their own destinies, but what cared Arthur for that? He needed men, men willing to fight. Slave or free-born he cared little. It was their strength he needed, not their background. He lashed out at this unfortunate who epitomised all the crass stupidity typical of his kind.

  “These two men are among the most trusted of my officers, they are too valued to employ their time on mere recruitment!” Arthur flapped his hand, effectively dismissing his men, trusting they would not show open grins this side of the entrance. Another lie, of course. His valued, experienced men obtained the numbers he needed to fight, for they knew Euric’s numbers now. Numbers far greater than Arthur had under his command.

  He nodded to Bedwyr, who rose, gestured with finality that the farmer was to leave, the matter settled. Bewildered, wondering where he had been mistaken, the little man bowed, made to leave, his hopes shattered. How would he run his farm with no one save himself and five young sons to work it?