Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  She signalled to Ider, made to move away, heard her name called. The street to their left was steep, narrow and busy, but Gweir called again waving his hand frantically to draw attention. He thrust his way through a group of women waiting to buy bread, danced around a man carrying two bolts of cloth, pounded on up the incline, stood, panting for breath before his Lady, his grin broad.

  “I have found them!” he declared, “At least, I think I have.” His face was alight, animated, the pleasure of success running not far behind the promise of leaving this seething town.

  Excited, Gwenhwyfar grabbed his arms, bent slightly towards him. “Where?” she demanded. “Tell me!”

  “To the south. The Place of the Lady!” His grin broadened at Ider, his arms folded, countenance scowling. “A great hill, rising high, high.” Gweir raised his hand over his head, “above the valley. We follow the river south, there will be a track before the water swings west.” He laughed, danced a few delighted steps. “The woman who told me…” He flushed, suddenly embarrassed at the pleasurable memory of these past few hours: he had learnt more than a destination from that delightful creature! He floundered, forgetting what he was about to say, blushed at Ider’s snort of amusement. “The place is known, but few go there, especially men.”

  Gwenhwyfar kissed his cheek. “I am not a man.”

  Oh the relief! They could be gone from this wretched town within the hour. That passing idea of returning to Less Britain was quite, quite, forgotten.

  XLVI

  The track, zigzagging up the side of the hill, seemed to take forever to climb, the riders sweating as profusely as the horses before they were even half of the way up. Gwenhwyfar brushed hair from her eyes, wiping perspiration with the same action. She blew out her cheeks, kicked Onager forward again. He was a bold strong animal, but even he was labouring.

  The day was hotter than yesterday and the day before, a more insistent, oppressive heat that drained energy, made for bad tempers and irritability. The blue, unblemished sky had hazed over after the sun had passed through the midday zenith, with dark cloud building ominously from the south. Rain would be welcome, but not if it came with a crushing storm. Several women working at the vines unbent to stand, one hand to an aching back, the other shielding eyes at Gwenhwyfar and her men, their bodies turning, curious, as the party rode by. No one spoke; it was too hot for words. At first sight of them, Gwenhwyfar knew they were in the wrong place. Morgaine would not be known here, not among these Christian women.

  “Different than Antessiodurum,” Gweir remarked with false amusement. “There, everyone would rather talk than work. Here… ” And he swept his hand behind, across the spread of the vines clinging like limpets to the steep, sunward slope. “Do we turn back?” he asked, disappointment catching at the tiredness in his throat.

  “At Antessiodurum,” Gwenhwyfar answered, “it was only the men who lazed and talked. I saw enough women with their backs bent double and their hands gnarled from hard labour. Na, we have come this far, we may as well go on. There may be someone who can be of help to us.”

  One of the men, turning to look behind, remarked, “There are more travellers on the road. Two, three riders?”

  The view from up here was tremendous, overlooking the spread of the parched valley, dark trees dotted against sun-burned, brown grasses and withered crops. One single track wound through the centre of the valley, bald, bleached white against the baked earth, the horses too far away to see clearly or make out detail, a dark smudge against the stark emptiness.

  Ahead, higher up the slope, another woman had ceased her work, had straightened. Her face was brown-tanned, the skin cracked and wrinkled from exposure to sun and wind. She looked to be over the age of half a century, was probably no more than thrice ten years. Gwenhwyfar reined Onager in allowed him chance to rest. “A storm comes,” she said, attempting pleasant conversation. “You tie the vines to minimise damage?”

  The woman nodded. “They are robust enough if regularly tended, as any child would be.”

  “You wear the black habit of a holy woman,” Gwenhwyfar observed. “I had been told this was the Place of the Lady.”

  The woman studied Gwenhwyfar, her ageing, crinkled eyes taking in the dark blue of her robe, the purple of her linen cloak, the sword with jewelled scabbard hanging from a leather, bronze-studded baldric slung oblique across her chest. Seeing also the men, strong, armed, wearing white padded tunics beneath crimson-red cloaks. The horses, tired but well fed, well kept; well bred.

  “We serve the Lady Mary, although once, long ago, this was a sanctuary of the other Lady. You wear the garb of a royal woman.” She added her own question, “Yet your guard is few and you carry no banner?”

  “I need no guard, nor proclamation.”

  The woman sucked her lips against partially toothless gums. “Equally, ‘tis best to travel quietly among possible enemies.”

  Gwenhwyfar made no immediate response. Apart from those distant riders and the women working among these vines, the world appeared as if it could be silent and empty. Conflict, death and battle had no hold in this serene valley. “My enemy is also your enemy. I fear Euric the Goth as much as you. It was my husband, the Pendragon, who attempted to rid you of him.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows, impressed. “He was a brave man to try, but also he was the fool.” She expected Gwenhwyfar to respond with some form of animosity or hostility, was surprised to receive instead an amused smile.

  “Aye,” Gwenhwyfar agreed, “as I also told him, on more than one occasion.”

  The woman laughed, she had a pleasant, young laugh. “Men give so little credit for our feminine sense!” She indicated the top of the hill, hanging high above, and the cluster of white-painted buildings, clinging to its eastern edge. “You will find no men up there, beyond the wayfarers’ tavern outside the gate.”

  “I am not looking for a man.” It was a lie, but justified as it was a partial one only. “I seek a woman. Morgaine.”

  “Not a name to be found among our Christian kind.” A flutter of wind lifted the white of her veil. The smell of rain came strong, insistent, with the breeze. The woman bent back to tying the vines. “Continue up,” she said. “There will be shelter for you inside the abbey, for your men and horses, at the tavern.”

  Thanking her, Gwenhwyfar signalled to move, halted again, turning slightly in her saddle. “Do you know of Morgaine?”

  The woman stood, her posture straight, shoulders held proud. Her head had turned up the valley to where the track, having passed this citadel, lifted again to the hills. She was not seeing the rising ground nor the dark welt of trees covering the slopes. “I have not always served this lady,” she said, her voice and thoughts distant, set in the past. Her eyes met with Gwenhwyfar’s, held. “Aye, I know of the one they call Morgaine.”

  Thunder rumbled, some many miles to the south.

  XLVII

  The men had not been allowed beyond the gateway. Ider had loudly protested, announcing that where his Lady went, he went also. The gatekeeper, a woman with steel-blue eyes, firm jaw and almost half his height, sidestepped his insistence by allowing Gwenhwyfar to pass through the iron-worked gate and shut it promptly behind her, marooning Ider on the outside. He rattled at it a few times, demanding to be let through, drew his sword, a helpless gesture. He stepped back, searched the high wall for a place to climb. Useless! The sanctuary within was as well fortified as the most formidable stronghold. The wall, sturdy, mortice-filled stone, stood above twelve feet, the drop this side being deeper than the other, given the steepness and shape of this sharp-rising ground. By stepping back a handful of paces, he could clearly see many of the buildings within, stacked, it seemed, roof upon roof as they climbed up to the higher summit. Timber-built, most of them small dwelling-places, perhaps a few workshops. He stamped again to the gate, rattled irritably at its lock. Within, he could see a tannery, women working on the drying skins and a larger building behind. There must be somewhere for a wine
press, storage for the amphorae and barrels of fermenting fruit. Women? Women only beyond that gate? He found that hard to believe.

  A chapel stood at the summit, wood-built and reed-thatched, with a crucifix, gold inlaid and taller than two men, erected with reverence high above the door lintel. The single cobbled track led straight and steep, bending sharply to the dexter side at a well where several women were gathered. He called out to Gwenhwyfar, “My Lady!”

  She did not seem to hear, for she did not turn around or acknowledge his shout of concern. Instead, the gatekeeper came again, peered through the iron railings. “She will be quite safe young man,” she admonished with a firm finality. “None shall harm her here.”

  Ider muttered something beneath his breath, which could have been a profanity; the woman did not choose to hear. She shuffled away, her keys jangling from the chain at her waist. Gwenhwyfar he could no longer see, for she had turned the bend in the track. He faced the opposite direction, his back to the gate, watching down the hill.

  The men were seeing the horses fed and settled; the lodging at the tavern appeared adequate, simple food but clean accommodation. Beside it, a forge and a tumble of shabby dwelling-places, the beginnings of a small settlement that would increase, no doubt, with the passing of time. The first spots of rain were falling, the sky blackening, thunder becoming more persistent, louder. To one side of the gate there was a small shrine built into the wall. Flowers had been placed there, though they were already drooping for it was too humid for wild things to survive for long. Ider hitched the hood of his cloak over his head, hunkered into the partially protecting overhang of the alcove, his sword laid across his thighs.

  He would not move from here until Gwenhwyfar returned through that gate.

  Gwenhwyfar knew Ider would not go far, hoped he would have the sense to make himself comfortable within the tavern, guessed he would remain close to the gate. Ider’s was a loyalty of devotion, never would he let anything happen to her. It was good to have such friends.

  The climb up the cobbled track left her breathless; she found her legs and back aching long before she and the woman accompanying her reached the chapel at the top. The Abbess, a woman of advanced years, but with eyes as bright as a blackbird’s, came from a building at the side of the chapel to meet her, hands outstretched in welcome and with a warm smile, as if she were greeting an old and cherished friend.

  “Welcome, my dear! Welcome! We are delighted to offer our hospitality to such an honoured guest!”

  Taken aback, Gwenhwyfar questioned, “You know who I am?” She had never met this woman before, nor did she see how advanced warning of her coming could have reached here.

  The woman laughed, gestured for her to follow along a path into the comfort of her private quarters. “My dear, I have no idea who you are; nor, if you do not wish to tell of it, do I need to know. It is enough to know you visit us.”

  Liking this Abbess for her honesty, Gwenhwyfar replied with as much frankness. “I do not know how long I intend to stay.”

  The woman laughed, ushered her into the comfort of a small but pleasant room as thunder crashed overhead, releasing those few drops of rain into a downpour. “I think,” she said, with a knowing nod to her head and bright sparkle in her eye, “you will stay at least an hour or so, while this storm passes.”

  Gwenhwyfar accepted the wine offered, agreed to that, but added, “I would be honoured to stay at least the one night.”

  “I will see a room is made ready. Stay as long as you need, my child.”

  XLVIII

  The stone wall to the east of the convent was low, the hillside, dropping as it did, almost vertically downward on the other side, creating seclusion and protection. The storm had grumbled through most of the night before taking itself off northward, but had done little to dispel the uncomfortable heat. Two days later the air still hung as heavy as lead, a persistent haze muffling the expanse of sky. Gwenhwyfar sat on the wall, watching a lizard scurry from one hiding-place to another, pausing, hesitant, between its chosen places of safety. Archfedd would have delighted in the creature, its yellow-green skin, darting swiftness and reptilian beauty. A stab of longing for home and her daughter shot through Gwenhwyfar. Perhaps it was the height, the permeating contentment of the convent that reminded her so of Caer Cadan, the looking down the hillside and out across the valley and up the winding track that straddled the steep, rising ground. Archfedd was safe with Geraint and Enid, happy running as one of the pack with the children of Durnovaria’s stronghold. She had no worries for the child, although occasionally, when thoughts wandered homeward as on this day, she missed her dreadfully.

  Reaching forward, Gwenhwyfar picked a cluster of leaves and fruit that would, before long, ripen and reveal the hardened shell of a walnut. The slope was dense with the trees, the nuts self-seeding over the years, creating a massed forest that tumbled downward, forming an impenetrable natural barrier. Absently, she pulled the leaves off one by one, tossed the fruit away, watched as it rolled down the hillside, became lost among the tangle of grass, fallen dead leaves and young saplings. She stood, wandered along the path, her fingers idling across the cracks and splits on the wall, brushing the softness of mosses and the intricate patterns of lichens. Beyond the wall, the unmanaged trees became clearer as the slope gave way to less hostile ground. Vines were planted here, southward-facing to catch the full benefit of the sun. Below, way below, the valley floor was cultivated with scattered fields and pasture for grazing, the meandering river an oasis of fresh green against sun-baked brown. Further away, as the land began again to rise, the cultivation gave way again to trees, those dense forests that dominated so much of Gaul. The track, winding upward cutting like a white scar through the dark foliage. That was the track she would need to follow, tomorrow or another tomorrow. To ride up, between the sentinel trees, upward to the crest of those hills, to find on the other side… Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes. All this way, these weeks and miles of journeying. One last track to follow. A few more miles, a morning’s ride. She wanted to go home, to turn around and ride away. Courage had failed, the need to know dispelled by the desperate desire to not find out.

  Horsemen, riding along the valley, crossing the river, turned to take the track that led up to this high place. She recognised the four riders as her men by their red cloaks and white tunics, distinguishing Gweir’s dun stallion at the forefront. They led a pack-pony, a deer straddling his withers. They had been hunting then, successfully, it seemed. She hoped they would have the courtesy of presenting the Abbess with some of the meat, knew they would, for her men were not a selfish breed.

  She rubbed her hands. The wind was chill up here at this great height. She would soon have to find the strength to discover what lay on the other side of those wood-covered hills. If not for herself, for the men who had faithfully followed her here. And for all those who awaited their return.

  She could no longer see Gweir, for the shoulder of the hill hid the upward track. Two days they had rested here, although she knew her men had not been idle. She had not seen things with her own eyes, but she knew Ider well, and Gweir and the others. They were not men to sit in the sun when something needed tending.

  How far had they ridden, she wondered. Had they already been over that hill? Already talked about what – who – might be there on the other side? Morgaine, certainly, with a boy-child. Sister Brigid, the woman tending the vines out on the hillside, had told her that much, had elaborated a little while the storm had raged outside that first evening.

  “A while past,” she had said, “I turned away from the pagan blackness and into the light of the Christ.” She never related what had swayed her decision and Gwenhwyfar never asked. Enough to know that before, she had been among the Ladies of the Goddess, and had lived in their secluded community on the far side of those hills that were, this afternoon, shadowed in the mist of a shimmering heat-haze. Enough to know the one called Morgaine had been away on some journey, private to herself, and had ret
urned with a man, wounded and close to death. The sister had known no more, whether he had survived, whether he was still there. That was for Gwenhwyfar to discover. When – if – she was ready to.

  Gwenhwyfar wrapped her arms about herself, closed her eyes against the tears. Was it not better to have that slight, however improbable, edge of hope? Tomorrow, or the day after, she would need to find the courage to face what might well be the final breaking of a heart that was already so bruised and battered. But from where that courage would come, she knew not.

  XLIX

  Gweir found his commanding officer sitting, as expected, at the table set outside the tavern. At least the man had been persuaded to move from that gateway. Further than that Ider refused to go. At night, once dark had fallen, he rolled himself in his cloak and slept across the threshold of the shuttered gate. Obsessive, some lesser men would call it. Others, Gweir included, would use the word devoted.

  Gweir straddled a chair, mindful not to block the larger man’s view of the convent gateway, helped himself, with an upraised eyebrow of asking, to wine.

  “Good hunting?” Ider asked.

  Gweir nodded. “Shall I send a haunch of venison up to the ladies?”

  Ider returned the nod, watched a group of chattering sisters walk by, acknowledged their greeting. “And last night?” An innocently asked question. Received as innocent a reply.

  “Interesting.”

  Stool balanced and with his shoulders propped against the wall behind him, Ider’s feet had been set upon the corner of the wooden table. He dropped them to the floor, sat forward, resting his chin on the knuckles of his linked hands. “How interesting?”