The oars were out, they could see them dip and lift, see the wild cream of foam as they swept downward into and out of the water, the power of that craft immense, magnificent. Formidable. The ship shuddered, came to a halt as the oars, in unison, backswept through the tossing, white-crested waves. For a moment it stood, poised, waiting. Deciding?
Archfedd was certain she could see someone standing at the prow, a well-built figure… Imaginative fancy, the distance was too great to make out such detail, but did she need to see? Cerdic would be standing there, surveying this empty stretch of coastland. His narrowed eyes would be sweeping the ripple of wind-dancing reeds for sign of settlement and stronghold. To look for the rise of hearth-smoke, the movement of riders, the shadowed smudge of wattle-built walls. He would be disappointed; there was nothing to be seen. As with all marsh country, settlements and farm-steads were wide-spaced, isolated dwellings hugging the islands of higher ground, or squatting beside the shelter of the trees that began their solid march a few miles inland. Nor would he see anyone among the reeds, or softly paddling a coracle along the tide-filled channels. If Cerdic could see, then so would the wild fowl, the occasional deer or boar, and if they could see, then that man’s family would go hungry.
And if there was nothing to see, except the dull pewter of a wind-lashed sky and the sweep of marsh below, why did he watch?
Her husband must have been pursuing the same line of thought, for he spat saliva from his mouth, intending offence. Coed Morfa and its stronghold two miles inland, had been the domain of his father and of his father, and of how many more fathers before? From the time before the legions had taken up their belongings and boarded their ships to return to Rome, had one of his line been here. Natanlius proudly placed his hand over the swelling of the child. Unless this one was a son, he would be the last of that long, distinguished line. His brothers, the four of them, had fallen at the bloodshed that was Llongborth. Their father had never recovered from the wounds terrible about his body. He had gone to join his sons and Lord Geraint one month exactly to the day after that wicked battle. The fifth brother had followed their path into the next world six months past, taken there by fever. Leaving Natanlius as Lord of Coed Morfa.
His hand around his wife, Natanlius stiffened, his grip tightening. Cerdic would not have it from him! Would not take what was his! Not while he had breath in his body to keep any poxed Saex shadow from falling here!
The ship rose and fell with the swell; with the sail furled, the oars kept her steady. What was Cerdic watching? This, the British shore? Or could he be surveying that other side, the Saxon land?
“He has quarrelled with Port and his bastard sons,” Archfedd declared, attempting to find some acceptable explanation, “and is contemplating a way to land an army with the intention of marching, unexpected, to the rear of his settlement.”
Natanlius guffawed. “If only!” A tempting idea, but doubtful.
Two gulls were noisily shrilling over possession of a fish. The waves were flattening, rolling, as the tide came to its height, that short period of confrontation between ebb and flow.
“Will you be sending word to my father?”
Natanlius nodded. “I may go myself.”
Grabbing at his hand, Archfedd spun around, eyes wide, anxious, her heart bounding with sudden fear. “Leave me here alone?” She flickered a glance over her shoulder at that White Dragon ship. “What if he comes while you are gone?”
Amused at her absurdity – as if he would leave her unprotected – Natanlius caught her chin between his fingers, tipped her face so he may kiss her, lingering over the pleasure of her eager response. “I have no doubt you would be more than capable of putting a boot into his arse, were he to be so foolish.”
She batted at his nose with her finger. It was not true, she could not fight as formidably as her mother. All the same, she pursed her mouth for a second kiss.
When they looked again, the ship had swung about, had loosed the sail and was making heavy way, back down the channel into her own territory.
Natanlius hid the sigh of relief. Unlike Archfedd, for she did not yet know, he had heard Cerdic was growing stronger, that soon there would not be just the one ship making her way up the Coed Morfa water, but many. Only a matter of time before Cerdic marched to join his acclaimed land to the south of here with Port’s, over there, on the far bank.
Coed Morfa, British territory that lay in between the Saex lands, vulnerable and exposed. Why had Cerdic come in his splendid ship?
Why else, but to gaze upon what he wanted. Would soon fight for. Coed Morfa.
August 487
XXVIX
So annoying he should be called away these few days after his daughter had arrived at Caer Cadan, but that was the unfortunate thing of being King, the final responsibility of authority rested with him. Even were he to have Bedwyr here – he had gone into the East Anglian territory on some other, minor, business for Arthur – he needed to sort this thing himself. Irritably, Arthur curbed Onager’s eager stride, glowered at the rain-dark sky. If she birthed the child while he was sorting this latest in a long line of disruptions at the lead mines… nonsense, she had more than the six weeks to go until her time. A grandsire. Him, the Pendragon! The thought filled him with elation. The babe could be female, of course, but equally as much chance it could be a grandson. A boy. A future Pendragon. That he already had a grandson was immaterial. Cynric was a Saxon. Meant nothing. He would trace his lineage back to Woden, not to the pride that was the title Pendragon.
They had left the flat of the Summer Land behind, were climbing into the higher country of the first of the White Hills range. Slightly more sheltered here, where the trees grew higher and thicker. The rain had fallen almost incessantly these past three days, with no promise of it easing, judging by the dark hang of the sky and the distant rumble of thunder. Spring this year had ventured late, tottering pathetically after a dismal winter, bringing with it cold winds and squalls of rain. June had fared somewhat better, with pale, half-hearted sunshine, but those winds had persisted. Much of the Summer Land remained under water, isolated lakes and swollen, overflowing rivers and streams. Arthur was not alone in being sick of damp clothes and wet boots.
The grumblings at the lead mines – involving the legality and authentication of the various official stamps used in marking the pigs of lead – had rumbled on through the months, with one useless procurator replaced by another. A series of officials, sent to sort the muddle of bureaucracy, had resulted in the need for Arthur himself to intervene. Too much lead – and more important, extracted silver – was going amiss, only the King’s authority, it seemed, would get to the bottom of the problem.
The road that ran beside the rise of hills had fallen quieter as late afternoon dwindled into an early-arrived evening. Wagons and travellers with any sense would have already been seeking shelter for the night. Those last few on the road were hurrying to a final destination, not eager to make another, unnecessary stop.
Ahead, by five miles or more, lay the Great Gorge, limestone cliffs that towered several hundred feet above a winding pass that cut like a vicious sword wound, into the side of the White Hills. Arthur hated the place. The precarious track ran, slippery and muddied beside the gurgling run of the river. The small slit of sky so high and distant above, cliffs to either side rising sheer, dominating, brooding. Trapping. He would rather not ride up that gorge, but his business lay with this latest appointed procurator, who resided at the largest mine, at the head of it. He could go the other route, up and over the top, the longer, exposed road. In this rain? Adding almost a whole day to the journey? Na, he would brave the gorge.
Ahead, an ox-wagon had turned to make the ascent of a narrow side-track, the Saxon drover whipping the beasts to pull against the cloy of mud, shouting abuse as a wheel lodged in a rut. The stone roads were bad enough for wagon haulage. Idiots to travel the lesser roads, Arthur thought absently, giving only a passing glance at the cart as he rode past the junc
tion. A man, mounted, flanked by two bodyguards respectfully, if somewhat slowly, moved aside from the road, their heads dipped in acknowledgement of rank. Well-dressed, a man of some wealth. A merchantman. Saxon.
Arthur ignored him. Behind, the guard sniggered muted laughter. “What is the jest?” he asked Gweir, riding beside him.
“That fat Saxon has followed the ox-cart!”
They would stop soon, make camp. Arthur edged Onager into a jog-trot, pushing the pace slightly faster. They would camp this side of the gorge, ride through at first light. “And what is comical about that?” he had to ask, having decided on no rational explanation for himself. The Saxons were certainly fools to travel a rough track so close to nightfall, but no merchant cared about the welfare of man or beast. Trade and payment their sole concern. Where was the jest then?
“The whore lives up there.”
The whore. What whore? Whores spread their wares along any track a man might travel. These roads around the mines would provide ample trade.
The hills were deep misted with the rain, trees dripping, the dampness seeping upward. It was cold, the light fading, so depressing, hills, in the rain. At Caer Cadan they would be huddled around the hearth-fires, filling their bellies with hot food and warming wine.
Gweir rode his beloved dun. Arthur regarded him, one eye half-closed, other eyebrow raised, his expression questioning. “The whore. The Lady of the White Hills,” Gweir explained. “You must, surely, have heard of her?” Arthur had, but had not realised it was to this side of the hills she dwelt, thinking her further to the north.
Gweir then added, “She was the one Medraut visited.”
Ah, he could see reason for the laughter now. “When was that?”
Gweir shrugged, wiped at rain trickling uncomfortable down his neck. When? How did he know when? He pulled his dun to a walk, set in beside one of the men, questioned him, kicked into a trot to catch up with the Pendragon.
“Last year, while you were in Gwynedd. Antonius was one of the escort.”
Again, ah.
“The tale is well known among the men,” Gweir continued. “Medraut came running down the hill as if the hounds of Hades were after him. The men reckon either her price was too high for the lad or her legs too long for him to reach into the important parts!” Gweir chuckled. Poor Medraut, with the misery of such a sullen wife, the ideal butt of many a jest.
It was wrong to make mockery of the King’s bastard son, of course, but with him away these last two months, visiting at Llan Illtud, the old stories had naturally resurfaced, safe in the knowing he would not hear.
“You seen her, this whore?” Arthur asked, casually.
“Me? When I need a woman I go for one a little nearer home!”
“That,” Arthur answered with a broad grin, “is because you have no need to hide your habits from a wife!”
Ahead, a suitable sheltered place to make camp. Arthur ordered a halt. He had a prickly, uncomfortable feeling rising along the nape of his neck. It had been there since that ox-wagon had lumbered into view. More precise, the merchant travelling with it. What was the familiarity about him? There was many a Saxon trader Arthur had met in passing, or spoken with along this route, why this unease?
It hit him with the force of an axe blade, while the world, save for the night creatures and the watch guard, slept beneath the canopy of darkness. Had it come to him in a dream, or was it merely that thoughts came clearer when there was not the distraction of daylight? Whatever, he had been sound sleeping, curled beneath the thickness of his cloak oblivious to the patter of rain. He sat up, arrow straight, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
That man, that Saxon, turning off onto the whore’s track. There were easier paths to the nearest mine. Why would he take the wagon with him to pay visit to a whore?
And more important, why had he been so intent to hide his face?
XXX
With the horses secured, Arthur and Gweir walked the last mile. Away from the track, the going was easier. They walked carefully, aware of the need to make as little noise as possible but the rain drizzling from the canopy of the trees, and the soft ground, absorbed small, unavoidably made sounds. At the edge of the trees, they hunkered to their heels, observing the bothy that squatted before the dark opening of a cave. With the rain falling, dawn would come late, the sky lightening with reluctance from darkness to slate-grey. No glory of a welcome golden sunburst this morning!
Arthur was wet and in sour mood. The ride yesterday had been dispiriting, his sleep non-existent. And that black, predatory hole of a cave entrance exaggerated his bad temper. Gweir had assured him the whore lived in the bothy, but what if they had to go in there, into the caves? The sweat on Arthur’s forehead and upper lip was not from the exertion of walking. Gweir would have to go in. He most certainly would not.
Three horses, unsaddled, were tethered to the lee side of the bothy, each standing with a hind leg resting, head drooping. Two men dozed beneath the makeshift protection of the ox-cart, the ox himself grazing unconcerned at the weather, over to the left. The drover, presumably, was the bundle beneath a sodden cloak huddled beside what had been a pathetic attempt at lighting a fire.
The Saxon merchantman? Assuming the two beneath the wagon were his bodyguard, he could only be inside with the woman.
The decision. Whether to disarm these three outside or kill them. There was no cause, outside Arthur’s suspicions, that they were about any wrongdoing. Even Saxons were permitted to rut with a whore! He glanced at Gweir, who mimed binding hands together, nodded his agreement. To kill them would be murder. Aside, their tongues may be useful.
They went for the two under the wagon first, assuming they would be the better armed, the more dangerous. Drovers were often slaves and simple-minded: you had to be to keep sane – oxen were such stupid creatures. Within a few short moments, the two were secured and gagged several yards down the track: one unconscious, the other too dazed to make a sound, with more than a few bruises and aching bones between them. Gweir dragged the third man from his sleeping place, his frightened whimpering silenced by a crack to the temple from Arthur’s boot.
When the daylight finally came, miserable and slovenly, Arthur indicated he was going into the bothy. Gweir nodded, grinned, whispered, “If she’s any good, let me have a turn at her before we leave?”
“You are welcome to all of her. No damn whore is worth all this effort!” Arthur drew his sword from its sheath, instinctively running the pad of his thumb along its sharpness. He stepped out from the cover of the trees, shoulders hunched, head bent low – was about to run the twenty or so yards to the closed doorway – froze, tumbled back into the shelter of the trees, heart pumping, cursing colourfully beneath his breath.
Gweir, with his own sword drawn, had heard it also. A horse, coming up the track. As stealthily as if he were approaching a nervous buck, he made his way to Arthur, exchanged a curious glance. They watched. The horse was a bay, four white feet, white face. He was muddied, tired, had been ridden through most the night by the look of him. His rider, cloak hood pulled well forward against the rain, dismounted, circled the ox-wagon, walked to the tethered horses, inspected them, examining their quality, looking for any brand or distinguishing mark. Stood a moment, considering the implication of their presence. Decision made, he marched for the closed door, his left hand stretching forward to thrust it open. His hood falling back, exposing his face.
Gweir reacted as swiftly as Arthur, grasped his arm, gripped hard, for the Pendragon had risen with a startled, angry gasp, was about to step from the trees. Gweir pulled his lord downward. “No!” he hissed. “If you had a wife like his, would you not be secretly visiting places like this?”
Annoyed, Arthur shook the restraining hand off, but he hunkered down again, his sword lying exposed across his thighs. With a wife like Gwenhwyfar he had already visited such places – but never while a wealthy Saxon was taking his pleasure.
They watched Medraut enter, waited for t
he shout and the flurry of activity bound to follow. It was normal, if a whore was busy, either to wait your turn or find yourself alternative arrangements. One minute passed. Two, three. No sound from that bothy. Nothing, no disturbance, no clatter or indication of fighting. No woman’s scream, no reopening of the door with an embarrassed or grieved customer scuttling through. No man who valued his balls would deliberately walk in and disrupt another’s purchased entertainment. Not unless the thing was arranged.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitening against the grip on the sword pommel. Arranged. Organised. Deliberate. He spoke low, the control over his fury menacing. “That bloody whoreson is not here for the woman, he is meeting with the Saex.”
“We do not know that.” But Gweir’s protest fell on closed ears. Arthur was already running for the bothy. Gweir had no option. He followed.
Slamming into the door, kicking it open with his boot, Arthur was through, rolling with the impact, instantly up on his feet, nostrils flaring, sword ready to strike if necessary. Gweir silhouetted against the daylight in the doorway. Froze, both stood quite still, stunned. This, neither had expected. The implications began to slither into Arthur’s brain. The answers to so many uneasy, puzzling, questions.
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