“I will be preparing supper soon,” she offered tentatively. “You are welcome to share with me, although,” she slid in a small, flustered giggle, “I may have custom to attend.”
Morgaine raised her hand, dismissive. “You need not concern yourself overmuch. I ask only a bowl of broth and a bed for the night.”
The girl, her milking bucket wedged under one arm against her hip, chewed a fingernail. She had only the one bed, a blanket-covered pile of dried bracken, and that, if any-men paid call, she would be needing. Disconcerted, she wondered what to do. The law of hospitality bid her make any traveller welcome, yet no woman had ever wanted to stay at her wayside whore-place before.
Could this woman read her mind? It seemed she could, for Morgaine smiled, reassuring, said as she rose, walked to the open doorway, “Mayhap this night you will not have custom.”
Inside, the hut was dark, musty, as most small dwellings were. A hearth-place situated centrally with the smoke-hole above it in the roof. A stool, the bracken bed to one side, a stone-weighted loom. Cooking pots, pottery amphorae; from one timber support hung two glass-bead necklaces, intertwined with a bunch of drying herbs. It was humble but tidy. It would suit Morgaine. This hut had once belonged to another whore, Brigid, who had been the messenger-woman of Morgause, Morgaine’s mother. Brigid, who had also worked for the Pendragon, feeding him suitable information. Oh, he had found out, eventually, that Brigid had two paymasters, that she was a traitor to his kingdom. Morgaine had been misguided then, had thought Arthur to have the right of it, had thought love was the most important thing. Not the commands of her mother, given through Brigid’s tongue.
Aye, this whore-hut would suit Morgaine well. Easy, in the early light of the next dawn, when a cattle-drover called by to ease the itch in his groin, to inform him this was her place now. He never questioned further, one whore was much the same as another. He had no reason to notice the patch of garden – even if he had, would have assumed the fresh-dug earth was for the planting of new herbs. Why would he suspect it made an ideal grave for the girl who had been whore here the evening before?
February 478
XI
They located a small herd of five deer after about an hour’s easy riding. The woods that spanned the undulating ground to the south of Caer Cadan were winter-quiet, the trees dormant, lifeless in their naked state of bare branches. The day had been dull, although the snow clouds trudging across the skies these last few weeks had at last retreated. Pockets of snow remained, huddling between tree roots in the lee of bramble and hawthorn bushes, lining the shadowed places of ice-fringed streams. It was cold, the breath vapour from rider and horse steaming, the light beneath the thickly crowded trees, for all their lack of a leafed canopy, poor.
Arthur pointed with his bow, indicating the does feeding, some few hundred yards distant, as yet unaware of the newcomers in the woods. He grinned at Gwenhwyfar riding a few yards to his left. She smiled back, the prospect of an easy kill cheering them both. The quicker they could bring down this night’s supper the sooner they could return home to the warmth of a hearth-fire and a tankard of wine. One of the dogs whined, chastised immediate by Gweir who had already dismounted, secured his horse. They were well downwind; the deer grazed, unconcerned. Arthur, too, dismounted, signalled for the boy, Medraut, to climb down from his pony, tether him alongside the others. The dogs were similarly secured, the handler left to crouch with them, ready to slip the leashes when needed. Hunting was a synchronised effort, each rider and bowman working as a team, needing, necessarily, to work in silence without command or communication; to act implicitly.
He was nervous, the boy, the last hunt a month past had been disastrous, not his fault, they all said, it was a thing easily happened, yet had he not stepped on that dead branch, had the snap of its breaking not ricocheted around that clearing… it had taken three hours to find their quarry again. Archfedd had not let him forget it. She was not with them this day, though, laid up as she was with a swollen and bruised knee after a fall yesterday. He ought not smile, ought not feel this gloat of pleasure; the girl was in pain, could have been severely injured. At least the pony was unharmed, though the fall had been a crashing one. Gwenhwyfar had told Archfedd not to jump old Briallen over the ditches, not in icy conditions. But she had ignored the advice, as ever, jumped the mare anyway. There had been a terrible row after, Gwenhwyfar determined to thrash Archfedd for putting a good mount in unnecessary danger, Arthur countering the anger by saying the injured knee and the forgoing of a hunting trip was better punishment. Medraut agreed with his father. Archfedd took a whipping as stoically as a warrior faced a battle wound. Not coming today though. Hah! That had hurt her indeed!
He attempted a smile at his father, put one finger against his lips to indicate his awareness for the need of stealth and quiet. Arthur nodded, tested his bowstring, indicating Medraut was to do likewise. Arthur, Gweir and a third bowman took position beside Gwenhwyfar and the two other mounted men, Medraut staying close to his father as he had been instructed. Ready, arrows knocked to the bowstrings, the horses moved off slowly, almost ambling. Deer were not so mistrustful of four-legged creatures and, downwind, the scent of human was masked. The bowmen, on foot, walked to the far side of the horses, Arthur beside Gwenhwyfar, his hand upon her thigh. She playfully tapped his fingers as they stealthily worked erotically higher, mouthing at him to wait until later. He grinned up at her, boyishly winked. He was still handsome in his rough, rugged way. Grizzled hairs were starting to show more pronounced against the dark above his temple, but it was as thick as if he were still young, no sign of receding from the forehead or balding on the crown. The skin around his eyes, chin and jowls, was wrinkling, perhaps developing a slight sag where once it lay firm, but the eyes themselves shone bright, mischievous. Later, that wink implied, I’ll hold you to it.
Gweir stopped at the first position, stepping from beside the horse, shrinking against the solid width of an old oak. The horses moved on. Arthur tapped Medraut on the shoulder, their turn to drop aside. He had skilfully chosen two trees close together, Medraut to stand a little to one side of and behind his father. The third man positioned himself, the three experienced men and the boy forming a V-shape ahead of the grazing deer. There they must wait, immobile, poised and ready, while the horses unhurriedly continued to circle upwind, to manoeuvre behind the quarry. Walking in fits and starts, the horses grazed a few mouthfuls of grass here and there. Unhurried, unsuspicious, unalerting.
Upwind, Gwenhwyfar and the other two horsemen, spaced a few yards apart, began to tighten the noose, edging closer to the group of does, starting the drive forward. The occasional click of the tongue, a light slap of a rein against the leather saddle. Innocent noises, almost natural, but a doe lifted her head, some half-doubt alerting her. The horses gave no threat, but there was a slight, uneasy scent to the air. Chewing the mouthful of grass, she walked a few yards downwind, head high, eyes alert, ears listening, nostrils scenting for that vague, half-caught smell of human. The other four followed gradually, browsing unconcerned as they went with her, nudged forward by the three innocuous horses those few, distant yards behind.
Medraut held his breath. His arm was quivering, for the bows needed to be held in the firing position. They, he and the three men, blended well with the trees and bustle of hawthorn and hazel bushes, dressed as they were in natural colours, browns and dark greens, their hoods pulled over their heads. He kept his half-slit eye on one deer, as his father had told him. “Pick your prey, a deer nearest you, one that looks likely to come to your side of the ambush.” He had laughed, Arthur, when telling this, ruffled the lad’s hair. “Works as well when ambushing men, only they have a better power of reasoning than beasts.” Medraut had grinned at the advice. Ah, he so wanted to do well on this hunt!
It was a delicate task, herding the prey forward. Too slow and they could simply trot away, melting into the shadows of the trees, too fast and they could panic, running to one side or flee t
oo soon. If they simply disappeared, it was not too much of a matter, for the dogs would scent them out again, but it would all be time, and daylight, wasted.
Gwenhwyfar, riding to the right clicked her fingers. Another deer pricked her ears, listened, attentive, watchful. A flurry of wind taking scent to wary nostrils… and they were running!
The best shot was to aim for the centre of the chest as the deer came head-on, from as close range as possible. If the animal ran to the right, a good aim would be difficult, the bowman had to turn. To the left was desirable, for an arrow could be loosed into the side. “For Mithras’s sake, though, boy,” Arthur’s words flickered through Medraut’s mind as the deer came nearer, his fingers tightening around the drawn bowstring, “do not shoot straight to your left or right – you could easily hit another man and anyway, the quarry would be moving too fast in relation to the arrow flight.”
Medraut gathered his breath, forced himself to wait, one eye shut, the other squinting, intent on the doe with a pale muzzle. He had been practising with the bow. It was easier to handle than a spear, for he could take better aim, aligning his eye with target and arrow head. Just one more yard… one more… Medraut released the strain on the taut bowstring, let the arrow loose, heard the whine of its brief flight, fancied he heard the thud of its finding the mark. The doe faltered, staggered, scrabbled a few more paces, her legs working, chest heaving, fell forward. Dead. Medraut cheered. His exultation sweeping away caution, he leapt in the air, hoisting his bow, yelling his delight, “I did it! I did it!”
Simultaneously, the second deer staggered, picked herself up, ran on.
The third was also hit, but the lodged arrow barely broke her stride. The other two leapt away, unharmed. Arthur had reached for a second arrow, knocked it quickly into place, but they were gone, too far to shoot accurately between the trees and undergrowth. He was pleased, stepped forward, slapped his son on the shoulder, took him to the fallen deer. “Well done, lad!”
Medraut grinned up at him, satisfied. Two arrows protruded from the carcass, one, Arthur’s, clean through the chest, the other, Medraut’s attempt, penetrating the neck. It was so much cleaner when the quarry fell easily. Gwenhwyfar rode up, slid from her horse. “Well done,” she said to the boy.
“What about me?” Arthur chided, feigning petulance.
“What about you?” she teased.
Gweir trotted up, his face glowing. The third man was sounding his hunting horn, the notes spiriting through the woodland, the baying of the dogs answering almost immediately, aware of the oncoming excitement, the tracking of injured deer. The two trails were found with ease. One was of clear, bright blood, a long chase probably, for it would be a minor wound; the other dark, thick and sticky. They followed for one quarter of a mile, found the deer collapsed, already dead, the arrow buried deep in its belly. For the other, they took to the horses again letting the hounds run free to follow the scent unhampered by leash or handler.
The dogs brought the animal to bay after half an hour’s searching. Arthur was tempted to let Medraut finish the doe, but it was senseless to prolong death unnecessarily. He motioned for Gweir to do it. One arrow at close range. The three carcasses would provide well for supper that night in the King’s Hall.
Riding homeward, while the adults exchanged teasing jests and bellowed raucous hunting songs, Medraut dared ask his father a thing that had been on his mind for several months.
“Da?”
“Aye, lad?”
“Can I go to Ambrosius’s school?”
Gwenhwyfar had been laughing with Gweir and the other men, she had not heard. Arthur checked his mare from snatching at an appetising clump of grass, rode in silence a while. Medraut bit his lip, hung back slightly from the merry group. He had been stupid to ask. His father was not a Christian. Arthur referred to Mithras, the soldier’s god – though in all reality, he was not a dedicated follower. And he was needed at Caer Cadan, to be trained as a warrior, to fight, to lead, but oh by all that was dear to him, he wanted to go to Ambrosius’s school! To read the scriptures, to learn how to perfect the technique of using styli and ink. To hear the histories, the great works of poetry and oratory! He wanted to learn, to become a scholar, not a soldier.
“Is that what you truly want? To leave Caer Cadan, go to Ambrosium?”
Medraut rode, looking intently at his hands gripping around the reins. He did, oh he did! But to say so, to tell his father he would rather be with the monks of Ambrosius Aurelianus’s religious school. It would sound so ungrateful, so hurtful. He said nothing. It was only a hoped-for dream after all, a boyish wanting.
“I wanted to be the greatest leader when I was a boy,” Arthur said. “Even before I knew who my father was. Not a king, I did not know I had the birthing to be a king, I just wanted to be a good leader, good enough to have men eager to fight with me.” He had eased his mare slower than the others, had pulled back so that he rode beside Medraut. “Wanting something so badly can hurt, more than a wound sometimes.”
Still Medraut made no reply.
“Are you so unhappy living with me at Caer Cadan?”
Medraut’s head shot up, protest quick on his lips. “Na, father, I am not unhappy, it is just that… ” he broke off. He did not want to leave, he was happy, but equally he wanted to be at Ambrosius’s school.
“You helped me kill that deer well today. Happen you have a better talent with a bow than you appear to possess with spear or shield?”
Medraut’s smile was tentative. “I will keep practising until I am as good as you.”
“Aye, lad.” Arthur released a slow, resigned, sigh. “I will ask Ambrosius to ensure you do.”
June 478
XII
Had he been a more cynical man, Ambrosius could have been forgiven for believing Amlawdd arrived at the time he did to be deliberately annoying. Always a man for routine, Ambrosius insisted on following a rigid day: prayer at dawn, a light breakfast of goat’s milk and cheese, the morning devoted to correspondence and judicial matters, midday hours delegated to his school of learning, attention directed during the afternoon to overseeing the stronghold’s farming estate and expanding settlement. With the third hour firmly set aside for a strict continuation of Roman order and civilisation. Ambrosius spent an hour relaxing in the steam and hot waters of his bathhouse. Such a typically Roman thing – and with so many estates forgoing the costly upkeep and maintenance of a private bathhouse, Ambrosius’s modest little building had become something of a personal symbol for his immovable sense of loyalty to Rome. This single, self-indulgent luxury, a daily ritual of private solitude, with only the presence of a necessary body-slave, had become an opportunity to relax, to peruse quietly mental ideas of worldly plans and Godly thoughts.
The law of hospitality decreed a guest be welcomed, offered shelter, sustenance and the sharing of comfort. In Roman terms, this included use of the bathhouse. Ambrosius was preparing to wander down the hill to his small complex of buildings as Amlawdd and his eight-strong bodyguard entered the outer courtyard at Ambrosium. Initial formalities concluded, he was obliged to extend the courtesy of asking Amlawdd to accompany him. Naturally, Amlawdd accepted. Masking his annoyance, Ambrosius disrobed in the modest changing-room, his nostrils wrinkling against the putrid-stench that wafted from Amlawdd’s travel-grimed body.
“Damned uncomfortable journey,” Amlawdd complained. “Saddle needs seeing to, my backside’s been chafed raw. See?” He thrust his buttocks outward for inspection, rubbing at the fatted folds of skin with his hand. Ambrosius murmured some appropriate comment of sympathy, declining to look at the overlarge rump.
“Nothing a whore’s touch can’t cure though, eh?” Amlawdd belched and passed wind simultaneously, loosing a worse stench into the confined space. Surreptitiously dabbing at his nose, Ambrosius gestured for Amlawdd to proceed before him, to enter the hot pool.
Waves heaved as Amlawdd leapt into the gently steaming water splashing against the tiled edge, slopping ov
er the top to puddle the hypocaust-heated mosaic flooring. Sedately, Ambrosius descended the three shallow steps, waded to the edge of the pool and, gripping with his hands, allowed his legs to float before him. He laid his head back into the relaxing warmth, closed his eyes; tried to close his ears against Amlawdd’s prattle and endless grumbling. For most of it he succeeded, not hearing the repetitive detail of that tedious journey.
“Lazy brute of a horse wouldn’t go faster than a trot, only slightly lame, damned thing’s fit only for sausagemeat.” Complaints against the poor state of the roads: “Mud wallows, Arthur ought make repairs an urgent priority.” The coldness of the wind: “Gets right round your balls when it blows from the east.” The inhospitality of a passed inn: “The whore there smelt of pig’s muck!”
Ambrosius said nothing. From Amlawdd’s similar stench, he assumed he had rutted with her anyway.
“This school of yours has expanded since last I was here, Ambrosius, must be making a gold piece or two from fees, eh?” He idled a few more lumbering swimming strokes, trod water. “Think I might start something similar, get a few of those eunuch monks of yours to teach the lads.” He scratched at his private parts. “Better still, have a few young girls, eh? I see you’ve got some around the place.”
Ambrosius averted his eyes from the obvious pleasure this erotic statement evoked in Amlawdd, did not condescend to clarify the inaccuracies. Men who offered their celibacy to God were not geldings; the girls attending his school were noviciates of the women’s holy house and were the educated daughters of noblemen, not whores. Useless explaining to a dolt like Amlawdd, who had interest only for the perverse and the crude.
“You ought spend more of your profit on personal comfort, Ambrosius. Look at these tiles man, they are a disgrace!” Amlawdd had swum to the poolside. It would be the one part most in need of repair. He picked at the loose edging, pulling a cracked tile away, tossed it out to the floor where it shattered, unrepairable. Ambrosius’s body-slave immediately trotted forward to gather up the pieces. “This water’s not as hot as it ought to be, either. I would supervise your slaves more carefully if I were you. Here, you!” Amlawdd beckoned to the slave, a thin-faced man in his late second decade. “Feel this, it’s damned cold!” Guffawing, Amlawdd splashed water over the slave, drenching him. “He’ll make sure it’s warmer next time, eh?”
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