Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  The torn and battered young man fell to his knees before the steps of Winifred’s grand Mead Hall, and with tear-impassioned voice, begged for her aid. Vitolinus knelt before his elder sister, hands clenched, begging her protection.

  “My army is scattered or slaughtered,” he sobbed. “They were untried and untested boys, yet the British hacked them to pieces. Where was the mercy your Christian kind so often extol?” Pleading, he looked into his sister’s blank, hardened face. “Ambrosius will be hard at my heel,” he stammered. “He will string me up by my balls for this.” He choked, the full rein of cowardliness after failure unleashed. “Talk with him, Winifred! He will listen to you. Offer anything. Save me, for the love of our lady mother, I beg you!”

  Winifred stood on the top step of her Hall, her cloak held tight around her throat against the damp, chill of the evening. A pathetic creature, her brother. Her father too, beneath his mask of greed for power, had been naught but a bullying coward. At least, for all his faults, Arthur had never been one to plead or beg.

  “For our mother?” she sneered, answering him. “My mother once pushed me back into the flood-waters of Caer Gloui, would have let me drown – unless the Pendragon had caught me, and then I would have hanged. Why did she do this to her only daughter?” She narrowed her eyes, looked with loathing at the thing that ought to be a man, grovelling before her in the mud. “Why? So that she could save you, a snivelling, cheating heap of cow-dung.”

  She descended the steps regally, her cloak swishing behind her. She was not alone, for those of the Hall were gathered in the door-place, watching; others from the steading were grouped at a discreet distance behind the shabby bunch of defeated young men.

  Winifred reached the last step. Whimpering, Vitolinus crawled to her, fastened his hands to her ankles.

  “Come, brother,” she said, her voice less harsh, less judging. “Things be not so bad. As you rightly say, I have influence with my lord Ambrosius.”

  A hesitant smile flickered over Vitolinus’s face. He began to rise, tentative, embraced his sister for her generous forgiveness. The dagger went into his stomach easily, but she twisted the blade, pushing it in deeper, her arm holding him around the neck, choking off his breath and voice.

  Killed in such a manner, it took Vitolinus a while to die.

  One death Winifred would openly own to. No regrets for the way it was done – although there were some who later said it was un-Christian. More praised her courage, her thinking. The best way to put an end to scum, with the feel of a cold blade.

  Na, Winifred had no regrets at the sorry ending of her brother. She would have killed him as easily, had she found the chance, on the day of his birthing.

  May 471

  XV

  The British saw the battle at Guoloph as a resounding victory. Given that Vitolinus, the perpetrator of the unrest was dead, it could not, reasonably, be taken in any other vein. Conveniently, it was immediately forgotten that his ending was by murder. None saw him as British – despite his father having been once their King. He had incited war and death, no matter how it had come about, was fitting retribution. To the English, Vitolinus’s failure was regrettable, but few did more than shrug their shoulders or shake their heads. He had been a hot-headed young man – good for him for trying – but the crops needed planting, the weeds hoeing. The son of a foreigner, a half-bred Wealas boy, would not be over-missed, on either side.

  Ambrosius was delighted with the victory. Deaths had been few, though many had suffered terrible wounds; his Council was pleased the matter had been dealt with quickly and efficiently – no need for expensive campaigns or costly negotiation of terms. The Cantii Saex were firm under Ambrosius’s boot, he had proved himself a capable leader both politically and now militarily. He was praised as a heroic leader, and before the month was half-completed, men began to forget the Pendragon for he was no longer needed. Whereas once the young men came to join the famed Artoriani, now they would come to seek a place within Ambrosius’s army. With not so much eagerness and hope, it had to be admitted, but it was early days. Soon, when he had the economy on firmer feet and his army was at full strength, he would begin the task of pushing the Saex back.

  “Send them into the sea from whence they came!” With the flush of first victory, the rally cry spread swift throughout southern Britain, especially where the borders ran against the English-held lands. Victory ran proud through those chieftains and petty kings who had thought it prudent to fight alongside Ambrosius, but Arthur had freely granted land and status to those who readily supported him and Ambrosius was, as yet, an unknown quantity. Their loyalty was not to be disappointed. Success, they found, brought all the trappings of generosity.

  Ambrosius’s victory banquet was lavish, by his standard of modesty. All those of importance were invited to join him at Aquae Sulis. Praise for those who had taken a stand against the Saex was bountiful, as was the promised reward: land, title, cattle, jewels and weaponry. Ambrosius was not a fool. Loyalty must be earned, and the winning of one small skirmish did not buy unquestionable faithfulness. Not when so many were so fickle, and prone to bouts of absent-mindedness. Arthur had earned loyalty by achievement and ability. Ambrosius had much ground to cover in sparse time. He needed to give, and give generously, to those who would follow – and remain – with him.

  The banqueting hall within the public buildings of the Basilica at Aquae Sulis was moderate but sufficient. Only the most important, the especial invited, were to join Ambrosius at his High Table. Lower down, there would be no official seating, for too many were of high and equal rank, so, as was common at these larger gatherings, it was made a free-for-all, come, sit as you please.

  To Amlawdd’s delight, he was to be one of those invited to be seated with the Supreme Governor. He had his own wanting for reward. Patient, he had waited for Gwenhwyfar’s grieving to take its natural course; patient again, had retained his thoughts and ambition until the right moment came to unleash them. He knew for what he would ask, it was his understanding the thing had been promised him while Arthur was King, now was the time to claim it. Unusual to ask for reward – it was for the giver to offer, not the receiver to seek – but in this instance, knowing Ambrosius was desperate for firm alliance, Amlawdd took his chance. And when all was said and done, his daughter was wife to Ambrosius’ son, which made them kin by marriage. All he need do was wait, speak when opportunity presented itself.

  He was greeted well by Ambrosius, who embraced him and gave loud praise, overheard by those many already seated in the banqueting room. “Amlawdd!” he exclaimed. “Another of my loyal men at the battle of Guoloph come to share in this victory feast,” indicating he should sit, to Amlawdd’s great pleasure, at the Governor’s right hand.

  “Did I tell you how splendidly Amlawdd fought for our cause?” Ambrosius smiled wide; heads were turning to listen, those at the High Table, others seated nearby along the rapidly filling seats of the lines of trestle tables. Soon the food would be brought in, the serious eating and drinking started.

  Putting his hand on Amlawdd’s shoulder, Ambrosius gave further praise; “My friend Amlawdd personally slew more than a dozen of the Saex scum!” Ambrosius encouraged polite applause. “Aye,” he laughed, “was your sword not almost as bloodied as mine own?”

  Chuckling happily, Amlawdd settled himself comfortably among the noble guests, accepted wine as the girls began to pour the offered drink, took a few olives from the dish before him. The slaves began to bring in the courses, great dishes of pork, beef, fowl, swan and hare, and fish of all kinds, piled vegetables, pastries, many needing to be carried by two men; all greeted with applause and delight.

  Ambrosius spoke gross exaggeration and disfigured fact: he had slain two men, wounded three or four others, had all but soiled himself when a Saex axe-head missed scything away his left ear by but a hair’s breath, and, to his sure knowledge, Ambrosius’s blade had been as clean and bright then, as it was now. To be fair, that was not the Supreme
Lord’s fault, for his personal guard had been so thick about him and the enemy so weak, that he had not found chance to do more than shout orders and avid encouragement.

  Soon the tables were littered with spent dishes, half-eaten carcasses, discarded bones; frothing with spilt ale, stained with slopped wine. “So!” Ambrosius waved his hand for the slaves to come forward with the sweeter courses. The noise was tremendous after an hour or more of feasting, so many guests eating, talking and laughing together. “What can I offer you, my lord Amlawdd as token of my appreciation?” Ambrosius had to raise his voice so that he could be heard. “You hold good land already. Do you require cattle perhaps? Slaves or furs?”

  Amlawdd grinned, enjoying this show of amicable companionship. Arthur had never offered such friendship outside his own ring of trusted officers.

  Bold, he answered, “My lord, I seek but one thing.”

  Ambrosius raised his eyebrows, gestured for the man to continue.

  “You may have once heard that a certain lady promised to be my wife if ever her husband had no further need of her?” Ambrosius stroked his clean-shaven chin. Aye, so he had heard. “I ask, then, that you grant me permission to take Lady Gwenhwyfar as wife.” Amlawdd held Ambrosius’s gaze, daring him to refuse.

  Pursing his lips, Ambrosius considered. It was indeed as Amlawdd had said; Gwenhwyfar had once made such a bargain to secure Amlawdd’s loyalty to Arthur, who had been in desperate need of fighting men. It had been a trick, of course. Never had she intended to offer herself as his wife… and yet. Yet the Pendragon had now been dead a few months short of two years around. Was it not time the woman buried her grieving and gave herself to another? Add to that, Gwenhwyfar was somewhat of an embarrassment. She was a figurehead; technically, to those who opposed Ambrosius – and there were more than a few – she remained Queen. To those of the northern and western tribes she had the right to rule, not himself. Aye, she ought be put somewhere safe, where she could come to no mischief.

  Shrewdly, Ambrosius observed Amlawdd’s expectant anticipation, weighed what he intended to gain from such a match. Merely a woman to occupy his bed? Or did he see this as a chance of seizing power? To be consort of a queen was no small achievement. Had Amlawdd the wit for that? Or would such a granting be sufficient to ensure loyalty? Amlawdd could call on many men were Ambrosius to need them.

  Making decision, he nodded. “It is agreed, if the lady will consent to have you.”

  Amlawdd beamed his pleasure, this had passed better than he could dared have hoped. “Were my lord to give specific request, could she refuse?”

  Hah! Neatly said! Had Amlawdd more cunning than he was given grant for? Well was it known that Gwenhwyfar was becoming a problem for Ambrosius, he could not lock her away, nor ignore her for there was no legal cause, yet he must be rid of her. She had not interfered with his running of the country, beyond a few disparaging comments, had not openly opposed him, but surely it was only a matter of time for both, and more, to happen. For her to go directly against his wish – order – in this? Could that amount to treason? Possibly. Probably, given the right lawyers, the right circumstances. And to grant Amlawdd such obvious pleasure… ah, the gain would be much.

  Ambrosius smiled, said, “We shall ensure she agrees. How can I do less for a man I am honoured to call friend?”

  Amlawdd inclined his head, acknowledged the extreme compliment paid him.

  “You will, of course,” Ambrosius continued, “require her eldest brother’s consent.” He selected a wedge of ewe’s milk cheese. “He is legally responsible for her.”

  Nodding vigorous agreement, Amlawdd answered, “I intend to ride to Gwynedd within the week. Enniaun is a man of good sense, he will see it is wise for his sister’s child to have a new father.” His grin of triumph was shaped broader than a new moon.

  Ambrosius knew what he was doing, even if Amlawdd was fool enough not to realise it. All he wanted was to possess Gwenhwyfar, that much was clear, but how soon would the other things come to ride high in his mind? Gwenhwyfar held, as estate from her husband, much land. She was the wealthiest woman – aside the Lady Winifred – in perhaps all Britain. If enough men remained loyal to the memory of her husband, she could, with the ease of snapping her fingers, try to resume her right to be Queen. Ambrosius knew all that. The wager: was Amlawdd enough of an ass to think no further ahead than the pleasures of his bed?

  June 471

  XVI

  Winifred was perhaps the only woman to be openly unimpressed by Ambrosius’s self-claimed achievement in battle. In fact, she was furious. Vitolinus she had dealt with, not the Supreme Governor. Where was her accolade, her triumph? And what of those who had so blatantly aided her traitorous brother? Her uncle, Aesc, was he to go unreprimanded? And the Saxon, Aelle, with his three bragging sons, was there to be no punishment there? How foolish it was, she raged aloud, to leave the Saex be. What if they rose a second time? What if Aelle or Aesc managed one day to take Britain for themselves? And her private thoughts: what if they take what is by right mine, through Cerdic?

  By letter, she petitioned Ambrosius to take action, received no satisfactory reply. She journeyed to confront him personally, only to be brushed aside with patronising remarks addressed to her womanhood and lack of understanding regarding politics. Ambrosius, it seemed, had come full into his rank of pompous, superior male arrogance. He was supreme and would take advice from no one. Hah! Should she be surprised? Was he not of the Pendragon family?

  Seeing that potential danger – for herself and Cerdic, if not for Britain – Winifred’s temper stewed, setting the servants scuttling, slaves cowering. Her tempers were well known, this latest one matching anything that had ever been initiated in the past by aggressive disagreement with Arthur. Even now, after all these past weeks, Winifred shuddered when she considered what would have been her fate had Vitolinus and his English rabble fared better at Guoloph.

  Well, if Ambrosius would not listen to her, would not ensure such a rebellion would not occur again, there was another who would! Commissioning a fast craft, Winifred took sail to the Elbe.

  Cerdic must be made to see sense. All this fool talk of not wanting Britain for his own must cease. Britain was ripe for the picking and it was the time to set about the harvest. She would never be Queen, but King’s mother held its own particular power. It would need suffice as the next best thing.

  “No.”

  Winifred sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed. A fine lady dressed in the softest spun wool, purest linen veil. “That is your final word?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I call you coward. You are no son of mine.” There was no spite in her voice, no rise of inflection or anger, but the menaced poison behind those spoken words were thick and threatening.

  Cerdic had never been as self-controlled as his mother and would never be as adept at schooling his features or temper to suit his need. At her insult, he lurched to his feet, bottom lip quivering, face reddening and fists clenched. The result she had intended, for a loss of self control made him vulnerable and weak. “I am no coward!” he bellowed at her. “And I tell you,” he was waving his fist at her, nostrils flaring, face contorted, “the day you are dead and out of my life will be a day of festival and rejoicing!”

  Mathild moved to her husband’s side, threaded her arm through his attempting to calm him by offering her support. Arguing with Winifred, shouting at her, being abusive was not the way to handle this bitch. Mustering her dignity, in contrast to her husband’s outburst, she declared, “We are not interested in Britain, Lady Winifred. We have enough for our needs here.”

  “Bah!” Winifred also stood, her height appearing even greater for her proud, upright deportment, her high-held chin and her confident air of command and authority. Cerdic would seem the more imposing had he not been inclined to be overweight and did not hunch his thick-set neck so deep into his sullen shoulders. She had told him so often enough, but huh! Did he listen to her, h
is mother?

  Scornful, she mocked them both, her hand flicking a dismissive gesture. “You are, then, fools! This sluggish river enough? When you could have Britain at your feet?” Her head came back, mouth opened in a hollow grunt of derisive laughter, a sound like the careless snarl of a wild beast. “For how long will it last, this idyllic settlement of yours?” She paced around them, prowling. “The Franks are slavering over claiming more territory, and since Arthur so carelessly failed to stop them, the Goths are driving the Gauls higher northward.” She ceased her walking as she came face to face with Cerdic again, stared callously at him and her daughter-by-law. “You have, I would judge, a handful of years before your precious river falls to the dominance of another nation. Assuming the floods do not bring about your eviction first.”

  Cerdic rasped a bitter answer. “Leofric had wealth enough here, aye and his father before him.”

  “Leofric was as much the fool as you are,” came the swift response, although a twisted smile formed with it. “Though he had a small prick of sense in his brain. He wanted me to give him a part of Britain.”

  “Pig’s swill!”

  “Is it, Cerdic?” Winifred rasped. She sauntered back to her chair, seated herself, almost regally. “You must, of course, make your own mind.” She settled herself more comfortable, preening her veil, spreading her skirt. “But you will never make much more of yourself than what you already are while you remain here.”

  “I am a thegn, and already I have the honour of the title Ealdorman.”

  “King would be so much finer.” Leaning forward, Winifred altered her tone to that of enticement. “Take opportunity while you can, son! Land, wealth. The authority to do as you please. You have a chance to be a king, Cerdic, a king!”