Cerdic stood, legs spread wide, hands clasped behind his back. Oh they would mock him on the other side of their faces, soon! One day, and one day not too far distant, he would have the strength to call his father to war. Damned annoying it was still not yet the time. He had not the men behind him to call out an army, had not the superiority needed to face the Pendragon in battle.
The craft was ready, the men waiting at the oars, the sail ready to be hoisted. He stepped across the gangplank, grunted an order that they were to cast off. With allies he could do it, could fight Arthur and the British: there were the sons of Aelle, further along the coast with their men of the South Saxons, and could he persuade the Cantii to join with him? They had been so sorely defeated at Badon – was it not time to rise again, to prove their worth?
But first, he needed the alliance of Port and his sons. It was worth the trying, again, to convince him to join with the West Saxons before opportunity was lost. Arthur was inactive, confined to his bed with a broken leg, broken collarbone and cracked ribs. He would not be out again this season. Was it not a ripe time to raid into his territory, take what they could, stir a few fires into life?
He had suggested it a month past when first he learnt of his father’s injuries – unfortunate it had been the other one to die, the one they called Gweir. Damn his father and his cursed luck!
But Port would have none of it. “Not yet,” he had said, “not this side of the winter.”
“When?” Cerdic had asked, resentful of the need to have this other Saxon as so firm an ally. “When can we raise a war-host against the Pendragon?” The answer, “When we are ready”, was no comfort, even though Cerdic had often said the same thing.
He would go to Port again, try to persuade him action must be taken, before the glow of autumn turned into the snows of winter. He knew it was foolish to contemplate rising against his father now – knew Port would again tell him so, tell him to go home, gather more wealth, more men – but Arthur was bound to his bed, damn it, in pain and discomfort. And he had been one of those to laugh loudest, to spread the story further abroad of how he had seen Cerdic fleeing naked through those woods with a backside raw with fear. And cheeks at both ends red with shame!
May he rot in the fires of the Underworld! May the bones of his leg fail to heal, twist and warp and cause him an eternity of pain!
Frustrated, Cerdic barked orders at his men to turn about, to put ashore, abandon the voyage. What was the point of going to see Port again? He was right, they could not fight yet, and knowing his bastard father’s luck, he would be up, out of bed within a few weeks, strutting around as if nothing had happened.
Ah, but one day, one sweet beautiful day, things would be so different.
XXXIV
Arthur thought if he kept his eyes shut and lay very still, he would not wake but remain asleep. He did not particularly want to wake up, not with the prospect of another tedious day drifting in front of him; not if Gwenhwyfar’s black mood was as bad as it had been yesterday. And the day before. He could hear her moving about the chamber, or could it be Archfedd? She had arrived last evening with her new babe, but without Natanlius, for he had need to stay at Caer Morfa. Something was dropped, a wooden bowl by the sound of it, followed by a subdued but explicit oath. Gwenhwyfar.
Yesterday she had spent most the afternoon at her loom over in the far corner. She was never one for enjoying weaving, always attempted it when her tempers were foul. He could not understand her logic – why pull the knot tighter if the rope was already tangled?
His shoulders hurt, his ribs ached; the bruises were turning a putrid yellow now, the vivid purple easing. His damned leg was itching beneath the splints and bandaging. He squeezed his eyes tighter closed. It was no good; he was awake.
“Did I disturb you?” Gwenhwyfar said. She was squatting on the floor, gathering the apples that had fallen with the bowl, inspecting each one to see if it had bruised. A good fruit harvest this year, for which they were all thankful.
“I was already awake.”
Polite conversation, each of them treading warily around the other.
The bowl of apples in her hand, Gwenhwyfar stood, walked to the bed, set the apples on the table beside it. “Do you want one of these, or shall I fetch you something else to break your fast?” Why did she feel so tight inside? So irritable? It was not her monthly course coming, they had ceased over a year since. She had a headache, but it was only mild, and she had awoken with it, fresh air would see it gone.
“They’ll do,” Arthur answered her, easing himself into a sitting position, wincing at the ache and pull of battered bones and muscles. She looks tired, he thought, her eyes are listless. He supposed it was not easy for her having him bed-bound and he would be the first to admit he was a poor patient, too restless to be confined within doors for so long.
“Why not ride into Lindinis today?” he suggested. “A change may brighten you up.”
“I have too much to do here.”
“Nonsense, there is nothing urgent that needs tending.”
Awake less than five minutes and already they were quarrelling!
The door from the courtyard opened slowly. Archfedd peered around it, her face brightening into a smile as she saw her father awake and sitting up.
“Morning, Da, Mam,” she said cheerily as she breezed into the chamber carrying two baskets, the larger crammed to its brim with gathered berries and a smaller one filled with fungi. “For you,” she said, placing the fungi on the bed beside her father and leaning forward to place a kiss on his cheek. “The hedges are crammed with berries this year, a sign for a hard winter ahead, do you think?” She sat on the bed heavily, drawing her legs up beneath her, Arthur winced again. She put the second basket down beside her, atop the furs.
“It will not bother me if we are snowed in until next April,” he answered testily, rummaging with his finger through the fungi and selecting a handful of buff-coloured mushrooms. He sniffed at their fresh, pleasant aroma that resembled the smell of new-sawn wood. “I cannot get out anyway.”
“You will be full mended within a few more weeks,” Gwenhwyfar snapped in response. “Why must you be so damned petulant whenever you are ill? If you had not gone whoring in the first place…” Abruptly, she fell silent. Arthur looked up sharply from the basket of mushrooms. Archfedd half-turned, her breath caught.
For a long, awkward, moment no one said a word, then Archfedd cleared her throat, picked up the basket of berries, stood. “I had better take these to the store-room,” she said.
“Stay here!” her father snapped.
“Berries are best sorted when fresh-picked,” she countered, already heading for the door. She knew her parents’ arguments, had no wish to stay for one that had all the indications of a full-blown tempest. A pity, she had so enjoyed herself this morning, strolling along the hedges edging the horse paddocks. It had been a bright, sun-clear morning with a hint of frost in the air – the autumn scents were so different here than at home at Caer Morfa. It was mostly marsh there, the dampness of the reeds and the saline tang of the sea permeated into everything. Oh, the great woods a mile or so behind were pleasant, but she missed Caer Cadan, the wide openness, the hills to the horizon and the beauty of the ever-changing colours of the Summer Land. She shut the door behind her, leant against it a while. She had so wanted to share her news with them this morning! Last night, she had been too tired.
Their voices were rising from inside. She was almost tempted to put her ear to the door and listen. Whatever had her mother meant? She knew her father had an eye for women – what man did not? But she thought this woman, Morgaine, had been involved with her two half-brothers, not with her father. The excited talk of exactly why the accident had occurred had been so muddled and they were all so worried, aye, and frightened when first it had happened, her husband and herself included. Coed Morfa was openly vulnerable to Saxon attack; it was only her father’s imposing strength keeping the floodwater of war at bay. Fortunate
that he had not been dangerously hurt – oh aye, bones took a while to mend and would often ache for months after, but the breaks were clean, he had suffered and recovered from far worse, or so Mam had assured her. How fast she had ridden here when word was received, how great the relief to know her speed had not been necessary. But she never had still not discovered the truth behind it all. She chewed her lip in thought, eased her basket to a more comfortable position. Happen now would be a good time to find out something more precise? Who could she ask? None of the men would talk, not about their Lord King to his own daughter. But Medraut would if she made him.
A half-smile crept onto her lips. She would take these berries to the storerooms and then seek him out.
“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Arthur asked his wife, coldly.
“What I said. If you had not gone visiting your whore, this would never have happened.”
“Morgaine was not my whore.”
“No, of course not. It was by accident she birthed you a whelp!”
“I laid with her once and once only.”
“Once each night, aye that I would believe!” She was being unreasonable, Gwenhwyfar knew, but now those words rumbling in her head were loosened, she could not stop. Almost, it was a relief to be arguing.
They had not quarrelled about Morgaine at all – because all those years past, in Gaul, beyond that first awkwardness and uncertainty of meeting again, when they had found each other to be so wonderfully alive and well there had been no room for harsh words between them. And anyway, she was no longer a part of his life. You could not feel angry at someone who was no longer there to rub the hurt the wrong way. But the niggling worm of jealousy had began to bite into Gwenhwyfar again since the accident in the caves. The doubts, the suspicions. He had gone to the White Hills to sort the matter of the lead and ended up in a whore’s bothy, a whore who happened to be Morgaine. She could not, just could not, accept it for coincidence.
When he had returned from Gaul, so splendidly with the momentous victory at Badon, so much had settled back, so quickly, to as it had been before, as if he had never been away. Yet, there had been differences, subtle, happen unseen to many, but she knew them to be there. He had held more fears, for one, did not harbour the great confidence he had once boasted; was more restless and uneasy, especially during the long winters when confined within-doors, with little to do. He had never been one to sit idle. He was harder now, too, more bitter. The disappointments of Gaul had been many, most especially the entire pointlessness of it all. He and his men had been ill-used, and he had greatly resented it at first, but all that had eased as time passed. He rarely spoke of Gaul now, except perhaps when snippets of news reached them, and even then, it was with sarcasm or indifference.
The dreams began troubling him again, though, after the accident in the cave. Dreams where he called out, shouting for the dead and dying. And occasionally, a name. Her name, Morgaine.
How long had she been there, Gwenhwyfar wondered, selling her body to the men of the Lead Road? And, more persistent, the nagging thoughts, when did Arthur learn of her and how often had he seen her?
Unknown to either of them, someone was beyond the inner door, a door not quite latched, that allowed every word to filter out to him as he stood there, hand raised to tap on the door to seek entrance; stood, not wanting to listen, but unable to move.
“Was it because you found Cerdic bedding with her that angered you more, Arthur? Your son bedding your poxed whore – a second whore?” Oh no, she had not forgotten Mathild!
“Damn you! I knew nothing of Morgaine, had no idea she was here in Britain. Why should I? She was nothing to me in Gaul, would be nothing to me now.” Arthur’s frustration was mounting. Gwenhwyfar was pacing the room, her arms animated, head tossing – all he could do was sit in the bed, lean slightly more forward.
“After all these years together, and still you lie to me.”
Arthur slammed his fist onto the bed-furs, sending the basket of carefully gathered mushrooms bouncing and rolling to the floor. “I do not lie!”
Gwenhwyfar’s voice was rising, the hurt and anger running away, uncontrolled. “You would have me believe both your sons knew Morgaine had become the most notorious whore in southern Britain – yet you did not!”
Arthur’s anger too, had reached its height. He flung the bed-furs from him, made to get from the bed, but the door thrust open. Medraut burst through, his face white, nose pinched, mouth twisted and ugly with his own anger.
“You call my mother a whore,” he roared, “but what are you?” He stormed across the chamber in three swift strides, stood before Gwenhwyfar, his fists clenched, face thrust almost into hers. “Have we not all heard how you bedded with my father’s own cousin – and aye, not just while you thought him dead! There are those who say you continue to tumble together!”
Gwenhwyfar did not have time to think, or consider action. Her hand came back, slapped sharp across Medraut’s face, her breath hissing. “How dare you!”
Arthur was half from the bed, swinging the leg bandaged into its splints as best he could. If he was angry before, the rage in him now was blinding, although it had shifted ground from Gwenhwyfar to Medraut. He got no further than one pace, toppled, crying out in agony as pain hurled through his body.
Gwenhwyfar shoved Medraut aside, ran to her husband, fearful, concerned. Medraut’s hands, too, went to attempt to help his father up, but Gwenhwyfar barred his way. “Get out of here,” she screamed. “Get out!”
XXXV
“Shall I find you a rope?” Archfedd said to Medraut. “You have as near hung yourself, you might as well make a thorough job of it!”
Evening. The frost was sharper already, as the first stars were beginning to prick the sky; the ground was glistening, whitening. She had tracked her half-brother down at the stables and found him grooming one of the horses, was leaning against the doorsill, watching, mocking, him.
It was all over the Caer, what he had done, what he had said. Were he not the King’s son, like as not that rope would have been forcibly provided for him. Archfedd, though, had an advantage over the men, whose anger was so roused by the insult shouted to their Queen. The curiosity that had intrigued her had almost been sated. She had discovered more of what had happened in the whore’s bothy near the Lead Road this day than in all the others put together.
“So-o you are the bastard son of a pagan whore-witch. ‘Tis no wonder you never spoke of her, that word was kept so efficiently quiet.”
“Everyone knew my mother’s name was Morgaine. ‘Twas no secret.”
“Na, but no one knew she and the whore who served the Saex lead-traders were one and the same.” She sauntered further into the stables, running her hand over the rump of the nearest horse, holding her hand to another’s muzzle for him to smell. “Fortunate for you Bedwyr be away on my father’s business. Your balls would be making fine decoration for the Caer walls by now, were he not.”
“I am not afeared of Bedwyr.” Medraut said it boldly, knew as well as she it was a lie.
The contempt was thick in her voice. “No wonder also, why it is my father has never seriously considered you to be his heir!”
That hurt. Hurt even more than hearing his father and Gwenhwyfar talking so crudely of Morgaine. He had remembered so little of his mother. The few memories he had cherished had been the happier ones – the sound of her laugh, the swirl of her hair in the sunlight. All those were gone now after he had seen her doing what she had been doing. Hard enough to bear that, without hearing the only other two people in this whole world he cared for talk of her as they had.
Medraut had never held a wish to be King after his father. He knew he could not be, he did not have the courage or the strength. Had no talent for weapons or fighting, but Archfedd’s taunts had so often been stabbed at him, had so often thrust home into his belly and twisted there. He lifted his head, his eyes staring direct at her. “He has no one else. I will have to be King after him.”
>
The horse had been licking at the salt on Archfedd’s hand, she moved away from the animal went to stand before Medraut, leant forward and insultingly wiped her sticky palm on his cloak. “Oh, but there is someone and, with Fortune’s blessing, mayhap two.” She smiled at him, haughty in her firm superiority. “The Pendragon has a grandson already born. And I am again with child.”
Pushing past her, Medraut thrust the grooming brush onto a ledge. “Are you that much the fool, sister? Children will not hold off Cerdic when he comes. Nor for that matter, will they be able to better me.”
“You?” she called spitefully as he walked out through the open doorway. “If it came to choice between you and Cerdic, all the people of Britain would choose him! He at least was legitimate -born to the daughter of a king, not a by-blown brat conceived of a poxed whore!”
For three days, Arthur lay tossing in a drenching sweat of pain. Through the day and most of the night, Gwenhwyfar sat beside the bed, wiping the hot fever from him and spooning strengthening buttermilk into his mouth.
When at last he lay quiet, she asked, “You did not believe him, did you? It is not true, what he said.” Arthur attempted a smile, held his hand for her to take. “I’ll not believe him, if you believe me.”
Gwenhwyfar’s smile chased the lines of sadness and fear away from her eyes and mouth. She bent forward, kissed Arthur lightly on the lips. A fair bargain.
March 488
XXXVI
Arthur removed his war cap, let the bite of the wind ruffle his hair. Clouds were massing, bringing in rain. This was wild coastland, these cliffs of Dyfed, almost as wild as the sea. There were three ships, small against the grey horizon, straining at their blue-grey sails like horses eager to be away, galloping. Spray would be billowing over the rails, the waves were rough, the wind lively. It would not worry the crew, for the Hibernian, like the Saex, were brothers of the sea. A good sailor, it was said, was born within the sound of waves booming onto the shore and the feel of the sea tossing in his belly.
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