Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Night had set, Livia was content to stay, for she had no reason to return through the dark to an empty and lonely dwelling place. She enjoyed company, and Morgaine always made her welcome, at least whenever Arthur was not around to grumble his objections. They had been talking of the latest child born in the village, a sickly girl, expected not to live long. Livia, as was her right as an elder, had attended the birth. There was not much the old woman did not know, few things she missed; her opinions, and more important, her blessings, were regularly sought throughout the community – aye, and beyond, for her knowledge of healing and use of potions were unrivalled.

  “Business, has he?” she asked suddenly, almost in mid-conversation. “Arthur? Over in that Christian Valley?” She spat her contempt for those Ladies she called ‘putrid love-lacks’.

  Morgaine could not hide her startled surprise, covered it as well she could with some vague, excusing answer, her mind simultaneously hurling a roar of complex questions. Why would he choose to go there? Why had he not told her? Was this connected with Arthur’s silence and distracted mood of these past two days? He had been more reticent than usual, abrupt and even coarse when he had to speak. After that stranger had come. Arthur had said he had taken a wrong track, lost his way, but Morgaine had not believed it for one moment. No one could mistakenly follow the narrow, half-hidden path that began between two straggly bushes from the main road. Ah no! The rider of that dun horse had come for a purpose. A purpose that had set Arthur into quiet brooding.

  He was not content here, had no caring for her company, no need for her as a woman save for her ability to sew and cook. He had never made attempt to share her bed, sleeping always where old Livia would sleep this night, wrapped in a fur before the hearth. He had not made this place his home, not looked upon it as his. This was Morgaine’s dwelling, and though Medraut called him Da, he did not acknowledge her as a wife, or as his woman, the mother of his child. Not that Morgaine would be prepared to let him go. He did not sleep with her, on occasion did not speak to her for days on end, but he was here, he was hers. And to accept him as he was, better than not to have him at all.

  “He is usually at the tavern,” Morgaine said, flippant, attempting to deflect the matter by offering her guest a second, large, helping of stew. It had been intended for Arthur but as he was not here… “Arthur keeps his own mind, his own company. He will return home when hungry, I have no doubt.”

  “Aye. No doubt.” Livia chewed the meat on toothless gums. Morgaine was a talented woman with a stew-pot and Arthur kept her well supplied with good, fresh, game. Ah, if she were but a few years younger, what she would have done with such a man! Wasted on Morgaine. Fool child. She let him have too much of his own thinking, did not use enough of her bed to keep him in the house-place. Keep a man content and occupied during the night and the days would look after themselves. “You ought to be breeding him more children, lass, then he would have no cause to go a wanderin’ after other women!”

  Morgaine flushed. Livia noticed, guessed at the wrong conclusion. “You have a seed growing?”

  “No.” The accompanying sigh was revealing. “No, there is no chance of a child.”

  Livia snorted her derision. “Babes do not get made by chance, girl! They get put there. If he will not willingly come to your bed, ought you not make your way into his?”

  Morgaine pressed her lips together. She had tried that once, some while after Arthur was healed of his wounds, was well enough to begin work around the shabby place that was her home, mending fences, building a byre for the goats, a pen for the geese. She had held him, touched him, made it known she was his if he wanted her. Never would she repeat the shame of that night! The shame, and the hurt as he had turned his back, told her to go whoring with someone else.

  She would not tell Livia of that; would not admit, even to herself, the jealousy that had started to seep its insidious roots into her from that night. He went somewhere else for his needs, probably to the little slut who served at the tavern.

  “Why didn’t Da take that big sword with him?” Medraut’s question broke her thoughts. He had only partially listened to the conversation, most of it women’s stuff, falling meaningless on his ears. Morgaine attempted to make light of the boy’s words, although her heart started lurching like a wild, Beltaine drumbeat. “What sword? Your Da does not have a sword.” Sword? Why would he need a sword? From where would he obtain a sword?

  “Yes he does. He has it hidden in the woodpile. That man gave it to him. I saw him, when you sent me back to fetch your cloak. I saw them talking, saw him give it to Da.” With self-pride, the boy added, “They did not see me, of course!”

  Livia busied herself scooping the last of the stew from the cooking pot but she had noticed Morgaine’s sun-darkened skin turn almost white. “A man came here, did he?” The old woman asked. “Would that be one of the men keeping watch on the riders staying at the Place of the Lady?” she added, sucking gravy from a hunk of bread. “Or one of the riders themselves? The British woman’s escort?”

  LVI

  Through the night, Morgaine worked up her own storm, until, by morning, her anger was as furious as any wild wind. Anger fuelled by fear, stirred by jealousy. By asking subtle, seemingly innocuous questions she had gleaned valuable information, for Livia was readily eager to pass on her accumulated gossip and speculation – information that fermented during those quiet, dark hours into a potent, black brew.

  That Arthur had gone to see this British woman, she had no doubt. Who she was, why she was here, she could only speculate. And guessing could so easily make for wrong answers. Come dawn, she had narrowed her mind to two choices. Follow him to the Place of the Lady, see for herself who this woman was and make an end of her, or seek out the two Saxons camped, as they appeared to believe, secretly in the woods. There were no secrets in the Avallon Valley! Too many knew too much of another’s business. As Arthur ought to well know.

  How dare he assume to steal away without consultation, without informing her. That he might not be coming back never occurred to Morgaine, perhaps because she did not want to consider such a thought. Admitted, Arthur had been with her, living with her as nothing more than a kinsman, but rarely had he talked or shown a longing of going back to Britain, of picking up the dropped and shredded threads of his old life. Those days, she was sure, had gone for him, were as dead and left for the crows to pick over as the men he had left to rot on that battlefield.

  But as, come noon, she made her way up through the steep hang of dark woodland, she began to question her own assurance. Was the past dead? Arthur did not talk beyond a basic necessity of conversation. He never talked of himself, his hopes his fears, his plans, his daughter. He shared some of himself with the boy, encouraging and teaching him, but was that from mere duty? Was there any love for the lad, his own son? Certainly, there was no love for the mother. Polite courtesy, obligation, nothing more than that.

  And from where had this sword come? From this British woman – why was she here? Why now, after all this time had passed? “She could be his wife.” Livia had been convinced of her opinion. “He had a wife, did he not? Two, I believe.” There was no deliberate intention to be malicious, but Livia had an unequivocal habit of hitting where it hurt. “Or a mistress. He had several of those.”

  Morgaine was not listening to the ramblings of the old woman. No, it would not be Gwenhwyfar, she was dead. Morgaine stumbled over a gnarled root, tumbled to her knees, scraping the skin. She knelt there among the dead leaves and new grass, watching the blood ooze without seeing or feeling its sting. But was she? There had been something said, months past, something she had heard muttered on a wind from Britain, something about Lady Gwenhwyfar’s grief? She licked her finger, brushed the spittle against the grazed skin, walked on, ducking beneath the sweep of branches, more watchful of where she put her feet. Britain thought Arthur to be dead. But someone must have heard he was not, someone had come all this journey to make sure. What had Livia been sayin
g about these men in the woods, the Saxons? Why were they here? Who had sent them?

  She found the two men easily, guided by the lazy smoke of their fire. A slovenly pair taking few precautions, for they thought themselves safe up here in these uninhabited woods. Concealing herself, she watched them a while, bickering and snapping at each other like two spoilt children. One lost the argument, hauled himself, grumbling and complaining to his feet, lifted up his hunting spear and disappeared into the trees in search of evening supper. The other man lolled, bored, half-dozing in the shade, supposedly keeping eye on the road that snaked downward below their hidden vantage point. He did not hear or sense Morgaine approach, felt only the cold death-touch of her dagger against his throat. She smelt the trickle of his urine, the dark stain on his bracae spreading, obvious. A coward as well as a fool.

  “Why are you here?” she hissed, her voice an insistent snarl in his ear.

  “We watch the travellers.”

  She knew that. “Why?”

  “Because the one who hired us believes they will lead us to a man who ought be dead.” He answered open enough. But then, the blade was biting harder, a trickle of blood meandering down his throat. Morgaine thrust more questions, her knee digging hard, uncomfortable, into the small of his back. “What man might this be?”

  “The Pendragon.”

  So, it was the lure of Arthur that had brought them here. She narrowed her eyes, pushed her dagger deeper, determined, her disgust erupting against this puke-smelling worm. “And the name of the one who hired you?”

  The man hesitated, fearing future consequences more than the immediate threat. Morgaine persuaded him to think otherwise. “Winifred!” he blurted, as the dagger prodded in a more intimate area. “Lady Winifred paid us!”

  Winifred! Not a mistress then. Morgaine knew of Winifred, knew the open hatred she had for Arthur. Once – aye, and not so long past – she had never understood it. How could a woman love and yet hate with such equal ferocity? Now she knew. The hate came with the threat of loss. While it – he – was yours, you could love, but hatred came in so easily, stepping hand in hand with jealousy.

  “And is it Lady Winifred who rests at the Place of the Lady?” Doubtful, but she asked anyway. The name that came brought a cold, heavy dread to her stomach.

  “No, not Lady Winifred. Gwenhwyfar, it is Gwenhwyfar.”

  Almost, she was tempted to kill him. Tempted to slide her blade in between his ribs and end his miserable excuse for an existence. Almost. Something held her hand. Something sinister worming its blackened way into her red-enraged thoughts. She let the dagger dangle loose in her hand, sat hunkered to her heels, thinking, planning, barely noticing that he scuttled a few yards away, putting safe distance between them. He could have bolted, but he saw her now as a slip of a woman, was ashamed of his fear, sensed that perhaps his life was not in any danger from her.

  She sat quiet a long while, sliding the blade through her fingers, through and through again. “And what if Gwenhwyfar finds him, the Pendragon, who ought to be dead?” Morgaine knew that answer also, knew enough of Lady Winifred.

  The Saxon shrugged. “As you say. He ought to be dead.”

  Morgaine rose to her feet, threaded the dagger through her waist-girdle, her smile a malicious, scheming smile, one that, had she known it, would have set as easily on the face of her mother. Morgause, the woman Arthur had called witch. The woman who had brought fear and hatred to him as boy and King.

  “Are you two alone to murder one such as the Pendragon?” she scoffed. She could not see this pair of fools mastering the ability to butcher even a suckling pig!

  At least he had the decency to flush. “Others of us are concealed a day’s ride behind. There is many an armed band roaming Gaul; beyond a cursory glance, we have passed unnoticed.” He met her cold, marble-faced stare head on, confessed, “If the Pendragon should be found, one of us is to fetch them forward.” The rest he left unfinished.

  Morgaine unfastened a leather pouch hanging from her waist girdle, tossed it at him. He caught it neatly, one-handed. “The woman will not leave this valley.”

  The Saxon had no reason to contradict her; the hair was rising on the nape of his neck. This was no threat, no boast. A statement. A curse.

  That narrow-eyed, evil smile again. “You will ensure it is so.”

  “What of the Pendragon?” the man queried as, greedily, he pulled open the leather thongs, tipped several rings into the palm of his hand. All were of good gold, one, the one shaped as a dragon, with an impressively expensive ruby for its eye.

  It had been Arthur’s ring, a symbol of his supremacy. Morgaine had removed it from his bloodied and broken hand when he lay mortally close to death, kept it safe, secreted, intending for him to have it one day, should he ever ask its whereabouts. But he had never asked, never questioned what had happened to his ring or his banner, or his sword. Never had he talked of his kingdom, or of Gwenhwyfar. That he thought of her, Morgaine knew, but of the other things? Who knew of what Arthur thought?

  There came no answer to the Saxon’s question. When he looked up again, his eyes as wide as his gloating smile, the woman was gone. No trace of her, no sound of her going. No bush moved, no branch or leaf stirred. It was as if she had never been.

  He shivered. There were tales about these woods and the women who lived near here. Priestesses of the old Goddess. Witches, some called them.

  He had no doubting he had just met one.

  LVII

  When Medraut shouted, gleefully, that Da was come home, a great tide of relief surged through Morgaine sending her stomach churning, her head spinning. He had returned! Had chosen her, Morgaine, over Gwenhwyfar! She ran from the house place, her hands flour-covered from the baking, her delight almost childish. Then she saw the horse. A warhorse and, irrationally, all the jealousies and petty imbalances welled into her. She waited, feet planted wide, arms folded, barring access onto the dusty track that led through the gateway into the open, hard-baked yard that dallied between house place, byre and a variety of outbuildings.

  “Where did he come from?” she asked, pointing with an expression of repugnance, at Onager. She had never challenged Arthur’s authority before, nor queried his action, questioned his doing, always accepted his word, his way, was law. He was here and she would do anything – anything – to keep him here, but the horse, like that sword, was a threat. A reminder of the past, too close a link with an alternative future that did not, would not, involve her.

  Arthur’s anger and pain was knotted so tight within him that, superficially, he failed to notice the unusual aggression. His anger was directed at himself, leaving no room for analysing the reaction and feeling of others. At the Place of the Lady he had said and done all the wrong things – acted the opposite of what he had intended. But then, what had been the intention behind going there? To establish whether Gweir had told him the truth? Why would the lad have lied over such a thing in the first place? Had he gone merely to see Gwenhwyfar, to talk with her? Why? What would either have achieved? Gone to explain what had happened to him? Or had he intended to leave here, go back with Gwenhwyfar? As she had wanted. As he wanted – in the name of all the gods, that ever were or ever would be, as he wanted!

  But he could not. He had not the courage to confront his own weakness, his fear. Both had reared up at him like some pain-angered monster. And he had turned and fled. Not even Gwenhwyfar had been able to keep at bay that raw fear of what had been.

  He answered Morgaine curtly. “He is mine.”

  “We have no room for a horse.”

  “I will make room.”

  It was late afternoon and it had taken Arthur many hours to coax Onager slowly up that steep, winding road. Stopping often, resting, encouraging. Occasionally forcing. They were both tired, bone-weary, mind numbed, dead tired. Arthur had realised the idiocy of taking the horse fifty yards from the tavern stables. Pride, irrational anger, frustration, all those things made it too late to turn back. To ad
mit he was wrong – huh, to admit it for one thing, meant facing again all those other things.

  Morgaine persisted. She did not want Arthur to have a horse. He could so easily ride away from her on a horse. “From where did he come? What do you want him for?”

  As he pushed past, elbowing the woman out of his way, pushing her against the low, wattle-built wall of the sow’s pen, Arthur regarded Morgaine with a look that could almost have been interpreted as contempt, except he barely saw her. He headed direct for the byre, settled the horse in an empty stall where in winter the one or two cattle they kept would be sheltered. He busied himself fetching bedding, water, feed. Everyday things to keep the mind occupied, thoughts shut aside.

  Hovering at the doorway, Medraut was uncertain what to do. His father was in a strange mood, and his mother was angry, why, he did not understand. He had never known her to be openly angry at Da before. It had something, he thought, to do with that sword, or was it the horse? His mother disliked horses, he knew, for she had told him so. He could not see why, for although it was obviously ill, this horse was a beautiful one. He stepped a pace into the byre, stood sucking the tip of his thumb.

  “Have you brought him here for Mam to heal?”

  Arthur, scattering bedding, regarded the boy. He was small, Medraut, thin, with mouse-brown hair and wide, dark eyes that always, for some unexplained reason, held a little more than their fair share of fear in them. Had he been born a pig or a sheep he would have been despatched as a worthless runt. Six years old, painfully shy, with seemingly no confidence or courage. Arthur tried to remember what it had been like to be six years of age. All he could recall of his childhood was the stench of fear and the presence of evil in the shape of Morgause. And the unbearable longing to have known his father.