Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  He was almost tempted to stay, build himself a hut, learn how to take the raw ingots of silver and turn them into such wondrous items. What a thing to do with your hands and mind! A king’s son become a silversmith? Na, he had duties and responsibilities at Caer Cadan. Well enough to take his ease for a few days, his father would not begrudge him that, but to take more? He could not.

  The journey homeward was not so buoyant, no Bedwyr as company and only a sullen wife to greet him. He had waited until late morning before giving the order to mount up, hoping the grey skies that had persisted these few days would clear, but the drizzle fell heavier, with a distant rumble of thunder. No choice but to leave in the rain.

  The road was crowded by standards of normal travel, traffic slowed by the ponderous lumbering of ox-carts making their slow way through the mud, to or from the mines. There was much cursing and grumbling, sour faces and hunched shoulders. Many of the slaves hauling at stuck wheels and recalcitrant beasts, Medraut noticed, were either northern-born or Saex. Twice he passed rich-dressed merchants coming from the direction of the coast, again, Saxons. He supposed it was economically wise to sell the pigs of lead to foreigners. To the Saex? But then, trade was trade.

  He decided to leave the road, divert to follow the river, for no reason, save for a whim. His escort passed, muttered grumbling between themselves, soon silenced by a stern look. Then his horse went lame, a stone, a jagged rock, whatever, had sliced into the underside of his foot. It would be a long walk for one of the men, obliged to exchange mounts, unless it was rested a while. Eagerly, Medraut seized the excuse to delay. They would make camp by the river, allow the horse to stand in the coldness of the water. By morning the rain might have stopped, the cut healed well enough.

  One of the escort mentioned the caves. “Up through the woods,” he said, indicating the faint path. “There is a woman up there knows all about healing and such.”

  One of the men laughed.

  At the time, Medraut wondered why.

  XXVI

  How foolish! Medraut felt awkward, ill at ease and ridiculously immature. He stood, embarrassed, one step inside the open doorway, fiddling with his wet, woollen cap, dripping rain on the earth floor of the bothy. She sat before her fire, her skirt, wet-stained at the hem, pulled up over her knees, her bare toes almost in the embers. Her legs were sun-browned, scraped smooth of hair as were her arms. Dark hair, damp. She had recently been out in the rain then. Her eyes and lips were coloured with the ochres and paints some women wore. His wife Cywyllog did not, for painting the face, she said, was a blasphemy against God. Medraut could not see how. It made this woman attractive and alluring. Interesting.

  “Well,” she said, having scrutinised him up and down, twice over, “I see a man before me, yet he has the shyness of the boy about him.” Her heart was hammering. Mother! She had never expected him to come here. Mother be protective, not here! But then, what had she expected? Never to see him, never to meet accidentally, never to have their paths cross? By remaining in Gaul she could have ensured that. Not by coming here, so close to where he was. She retained the seductive smile, for she was experienced at that. You could not be a woman who pleasured men without that ability to smile, to laugh, to give the illusion of enjoyment. While inside you were screaming.

  “My horse is lame,” Medraut stammered, looking at the floor, the bothy wall, anywhere but at her and those slim, enticing legs. “I hoped you might have a suitable salve. I have payment.” He unhooked a small wineskin from his shoulder, hung its strap on a hook directly to his left on the wall, atop a cloak, wet also from the rain.

  The woman inclined her head in acceptance, leant backward, resting her weight on one elbow. If he could come, what of Arthur? The smile at the corner of her lips twitched, gloating, triumphant. If only he would, how much easier it would be! She did not turn to look, for she knew the jar. It was there, on the left-hand shelf beside the casket of jewellery. A small pottery vase, well stoppered with wax, its contents a dark, bitter liquid. Intended, one day, for him.

  “I have a salve to heal all needs,” she said. And potions to end them, she thought.

  Medraut knew his answering smile gave him the appearance of a full-moon fool, knew also how red his face was burning. What had he expected to find here, in the name of God? A hag, a curled old woman, muttering toothless over her foul-stinking remedies? Now he understood the men’s laughter. “A woman up there knows all about healing and such… ” Aye, and such! His blush deepened. Why had he come here? Why did he not go, walk away?

  Because she would mock him, laugh at him? He could see it happening, see himself hurrying back down the hill, slipping and sliding on the rain-wet grass; her standing in this doorway, hands on hips, head back, laughing. Cywyllog mocked him, though not with laughter. Hers was the censuring of long silences or harsh, narrow-eyed glances and the bite of unnecessary sarcasm.

  He stood there in the doorway, uncertain what to do or say. Chewed his lip. Damn the woman, she was not making this easy for him!

  “Are you to come inside?” she asked, cocking her eyes briefly in the direction of a blanket-covered bed to one corner. Inviting, luring. Cywyllog’s was a box-bed, hard and unyielding. Like her.

  “I just want the salve,” he managed, through dry mouth and uneasy breath.

  Shrugging her shoulder, Morgaine unfolded herself, came to her feet, her bracelets chiming, the blue-painted patterns tattooed along her arms rippling, giving the illusion that the twined shapes of snakes and vine leaves were slithering up the skin. Her skirt tumbled, to fall as it should, the bright colour attractive but hiding those long, lovely legs. The thought raced across Medraut’s mind that he would like to have seen higher – a thought hastily thrust aside. His eyes, however, were focused on those painted patterns. Where had he seen such before?

  “A lame horse? What form of lameness?” Twice she needed to ask the questions.

  “His foot, a cut.”

  She nodded, gestured with her hand that he must step aside from the doorway as she needed to pass through. “My salves I keep in a room to the back of this.” Embarrassment re-emerging, he hastily stepped a pace to the side. A chance to glance around while she was gone.

  The bothy was wattle-built, reed-thatched, windowless. A central hearth-place with tripod and cooking pot suspended over it, the normal fug of smoke gathered beneath the roof, writhing its way through the narrow smoke-hole. The bed, a stool; shelves crammed with pots and jars, a wooden chest, for her garments, no doubt. Cooking utensils. A table, small, ornate, out of place here in this hovel. It was a wealthy person’s piece of furniture, exquisitely made, inlaid with ebony and some bright, shining, coloured stuff such as you would see inside an opened oyster shell. It was not that which drew his attention, but the things laid out upon it. A whalebone comb, an array of ivory and silver hairpins and a bronze mirror. The handle was twisted around itself, decorated to resemble a tree, the branches and leaves spreading upward to form the back of the polished metal mirror. He wandered over to it, his hand going out, almost as if it had motion all its own, to lift the object up. He knew he would find a doe carved, half-hidden, timid, behind one of those stemmed branches.

  He almost dropped the thing as he heard her returning to the door, his skin prickling, drained white; his hand, his body, trembling. He took the pot from her hand, ran from the place. He steadied himself, forced himself to walk, dignified, calm. Ignored her call.

  “Come again, Medraut. You will always be welcome.”

  September 486

  XXVII

  Bedwyr found Arthur relaxing within the contented security of Gwenhwyfar’s family domain. Gwynedd, the land of sky-tipped mountain and soaring eagle; of the proud, red deer, the bristled ugliness of the boar, and the slink of the grey wolf.

  For several months they had resided among the splendour of the mountains, Arthur himself disappearing for a few weeks to ride north, to Caer Lueil and beyond, to the High Lands rolling, seemingly forever, beyond the
Roman Wall. The monument to a distant era that stretched from sea to sea, that was now obsolete and rapidly becoming neglected and ruinous. In the north, Arthur was Supreme King in name only. They outwardly honoured him, paid a minor annual tribute, fawned and smiled while he resided overnight in Hall or settlement. Forgot him as soon as his banner dipped out of sight into the next valley. It was enough for Arthur. If the peace held, if none cared or dared to challenge his ultimate authority, then so be it, leave it as it was. It would remain so until his ending, and then… who knew?

  Arthur had returned to Caer Arfon three days earlier, was assisting in the breaking-in of a young colt, a fiery bay with a will of his own.

  Teaching a horse to respond to a rider’s wish was no quick, single-morning task. To train an animal for the requisites of war – as Arthur needed – took skill and time and patience, took the knowing of a horse’s mind. It was all about trust and respect. Beat a horse, hurt or frighten it, the horse would serve, but unwillingly, with fear and wariness. Gentle him, and the animal would do anything, go anywhere. The colt had passed through its third summer, had been handled from a yearling, taught to lead quietly, stand, turn. To wear saddle and bridle. The next stage: to carry a rider.

  Already comfortable with the saddle and used to having a man lean over his back, the colt stood quiet for his handler while Arthur made a fuss of him, patting, stroking, talking softly, fondling his ears and muzzle, giving a small handful of corn. Gently, taking his time, Arthur moved along the colt’s neck, patting and stroking, talking, almost crooning, nonsense words.

  “There’s a lad, handsome boy. Your sire would be proud of you, your mother elated! There, my son of the wind. Stand, my beauty, stand.” Arthur leant his weight over the saddle, his feet firm on the ground. The colt’s ears flicked backwards, but unconcerned, listening more to the soothing voice rather than being attentive to what was happening. Arthur eased his whole weight over, feet dangling, and then, judging the right moment, sat astride, calm, immobile, hands resting loose on his thighs, legs dangling. The colt was more interested in that second handful of corn that Arthur’s helper was offering him, a lad who had the trust of many of the young horses. Relaxed, in no hurry, Arthur took up the reins. He nodded, clicked his tongue as the handler, leading the horse simultaneously, gave the order to walk on.

  Within half of an hour, Arthur was directing the colt alone, following the fence of the circular gyrus, the horse training ground, he tapped the horse’s sides with his heels, used his voice and tongue, and the colt broke into a rhythmic trot.

  Arthur was pleased, a fine animal, a good horse for the Artoriani.

  “A Roman once said of the Syrians,” a voice called laconically from inside the gateway, “the only mares they could ride with any efficiency were the whores of the local brothels, and even then, they could not maintain a distance. It pleases me to see that we have higher standards here in Britain!”

  Looking across the sanded ground of the gyrus, wearing a deep frown of annoyance at having his concentration interrupted, Arthur burst into a wide, gladdened, grin. “Bedwyr!” he exclaimed, “By all that is good! Bedwyr!” He halted the colt, beckoned for the handler to come forward, take him, slid down from the animal, giving him the last of the corn from his waist pouch and a rewarding pat. Strode across to the gateway, arms outstretched, delighted. “You are home? Ah, it is good to see you!”

  The men embraced, looked each other over for signs of age, illness or harm, found none, embraced enthusiastically again.

  “Jesu, but you have led me a merry dance!” Bedwyr complained, as arms about each other’s shoulders, they left the training ground. “First, I ride to Caer Cadan, then to Dinas Emrys then here. You are more difficult to pin with a spear than a wounded boar!”

  “Had you arrived a few days since, then I would have been up above the Wall – but Gwenhwyfar is here, with Archfedd and her new-taken husband.”

  “Aye, so I have heard.” Bedwyr slapped Arthur’s back half in congratulations, half in jest. “What manner of an untried whelp have you taken as son-by-law, then?”

  “One who has delusions of young love and romance.”

  “Hah! That will soon be rubbed from him.”

  They laughed loud, delighted with the company of each other, euphoric at the reunion, strode down the hill towards the imposing ramparts of the stronghold of Caer Arfon. The pleasure repeated with Gwenhwyfar, and her daughter. Then the questions came, the whys, wheres and hows. The demand for tales of his long journeying, to hear of where he had been, what he had seen. A louder demand to know what gifts he had brought home, especially from Archfedd, who had leapt to engulf her father’s cousin in an embrace of fierce possession.

  “Gifts?” Bedwyr jested. “Is my return not gift enough?” Relenting, he accounted the truth. “I have left them at Caer Cadan, safe awaiting your return. Silks as fine and delicate as any maid could wish, perfumes and unguents, jewels that sparkle brighter than the summer sun reflected on a mountain pool, fleeces thicker than three skins of the bear, leather, ivory, skins… ” Gwenhwyfar begged him to say no more, Archfedd pleaded to return south on the morrow!

  They dined, Gwenhwyfar’s nephew, Owain, commanding that a feast of especially fine quality be prepared, and the best wine amphorae be opened. Late into the night, Bedwyr entertained with his stories of distant, exotic countries that baked under a sun hotter than the hottest summer’s day, of rivers wider than the space between the walls of the Caer; of strange beasts and dark-skinned people. A wondrous variety of language and foods. Inevitably, the delights of the whores.

  “They ride well? None of them Syrian then, I assume?” Arthur quipped, his expression straight and serious as he sipped his wine. For a moment Bedwyr was puzzled at the reference, remembered his jest from earlier in the day, laughed outright.

  More wine, more talk, more laughter. Archfedd had fallen asleep, her head pillowed on her husband’s shoulder, Natanlius, his arm proudly around her, attempting to keep his eyes from closing. Gwenhwyfar lay stretched along a couch, a goose-down cushion clutched between her arms as a pillow, a deep smile on her sleeping face. Owain had retired for the night. Arthur and Bedwyr alone sat awake pouring yet another glass of fine wine.

  “You heard of Syagrius?” Bedwyr asked.

  For a while, Arthur was silent, savouring the sweet taste of his wine. Then slowly and with no tinge of regret, said, “I heard. Clovis of the Franks took Soissons, had him executed.” Another mouthful of wine, thoughtfully swallowed. “He was once, a long time past, a friend of mine. After Gaul, I will never again trust any man who dares call himself friend.” The words were poignant, tinged with those bitter memories.

  Bedwyr too sat silent, swilling his wine around in his glass. He would not argue with that. “He should have come to our aid. Ought not have abandoned us as he did.” Bedwyr drained his glass in a quick, tossed motion. “He tried seeking sanctuary with Alaric, the new King of the Goths. Even our past enemies, it seems, did not trust his honeyed words. He was returned to Clovis.”

  “Alaric,” Arthur ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass, “the successor to Euric. I ought to have been delighted to hear of that bastard’s death, but somehow, as each year passes, the word death grows more menacing. It stalks too close to my heels to be mocked, I think.” He snorted a huff of self-derision. “I even found myself dismayed to hear Sidonius Apollinaris had died of a fever. No more of his damned embellished letters, I should have felt some small pleasure at that.”

  They sat a while, silent, each brooding his own thoughts. Bedwyr was about to speak, realised Arthur had drifted into sleep. He looked so much older. More hair greying at temple and forehead, skin more puckered and wrinkled. Contemplated Archfedd, with the fresh dew of youth radiating about her; her husband Natanlius, eager in his pride, shining with his new-found love.

  And Gwenhwyfar.

  Ah, Gwenhwyfar would always be the beauty, even when she was old and shrivelling. For all the excitement and ad
venture that he had experienced these past few years, he had missed Gwenhwyfar.

  May 487

  XXVIII

  Coed Morfa: the marsh beside the woodland. The wind swept up the channel, blustering aggressively, bending the reeds beneath the hiss of spray, tossing the gulls and sea birds as if they were of no consequence. Billowing behind the sail of the Saxon longship, which was cruising parallel with the far bank, the blue-grey chequering of its weave undulating with each freshening gust.

  Natanlius was not a tall man, though stocky-built, deep-voiced. He held Archfedd before him, his hand firm around her broadening waist, his expression grim. Oh, the Saex ships came frequently enough to their established south settlement over there on the far side of the water, but rarely further up, never before, this far – at least, not as openly. Archfedd gripped her husband’s forearm, sharing his anger, hiding the flutter of fear within her belly, telling herself that it was only the child moving. It was not so much the ship that caused their anger, but the emblem streaming from the mast. The White Dragon. Cerdic.

  The bitch, Mel, sensed the stir of unease. She nosed the wind, scenting for danger, met only with the familiar smell of the tide and the salt tang of the marsh. Pressed herself closer against her mistress’s legs, growled softly. Absently, Archfedd ruffled her head, soothing, behind those flattened ears.

  “Can he see us?” she asked. “Will he attempt to make a landing?”

  “I doubt it, to both questions.” Natanlius had no need to sound optimistically confident, common sense told he was right. They stood, not out in the open, but against a cluster of wind-twisted trees that marked these patchy, irregular coastal woodlands. Their cloaks, though fluttering in the wind, were the-earth colours of dark green and brown and the horses were secured on the far side of the copse. It was no good hunting for wild duck dressed in bright colours. They had a brace already, had been stalking a fat mallard when the ship had appeared. As for her landing, the wind was too strong to bring such an immense craft – for all her sleekness and manoeuvrability – to this side of the channel, and soon, the tide would be turning. “Na,” he said again, “we are safe.” For now. But for how much longer? He kept the thought to himself.