Arthur had come here to see for himself how the sea-wolves were tormenting this rugged line of Britain’s western coast. He did not much like what he had already seen. His horse stamped a hind hoof, impatient with standing at the edge of this wind-tousled cliff. There was grass beneath his feet and he wanted to run. Arthur absently patted his chestnut neck. The winter coat would be thinning soon, this rough, thick one giving way to the smooth shine of summer. Brenin – King – son of Onager, sharing the same chestnut colouring, but with more white to his hind feet and a star on his forehead. As handsome and bold as his father with, thankfully, his dam’s sweeter temper!
“Always a ship,” the man sitting his horse beside the Pendragon said. “One, often two or three. They come in closer on days when the wind is favourable.” Vortipor of Dyfed, a man barely into his thirtieth year, already high in power. Dressed richly, blue cloak adorned by gold braiding and a brooch the size of a man’s clenched fist. Rings on his fingers, a gold hoop in his ear, at his throat a torque as thick as his wrist. Vortipor, probably the second wealthiest man of all the British beneath the Pendragon. His land stretched from coast to mountain, inherited from his father and secured by the benefit brought him by his recent-taken wife – the benefit of gold. He had been fortunate with betrothing her, the widow of a merchant, a man who had hoarded gold with the voracity of a squirrel collecting nuts. Her young daughter was a problem, for by law, the father’s wealth would pass to her upon her mother’s death, not to the husband, but she was just a child yet, the mother of no great age. Why worry about the future, when the threats of now were more prevalent?
“They will be harassing my shores in greater number, now spring has tumbled out of her bed.” Vortipor heeled his horse so he could regard Arthur direct. “I need the assurance of more fighting men to aid me. Good men. Your men. As you have seen for yourself, I have coasts to protect. Valleys to patrol.”
Only the one craft was visible now, rain threading from the darkening clouds was sweeping, curtain-like, over the restless toss of the sea.
“So far, they come only to plunder – taking slaves and women mostly, some cattle, but last year the Land-Trotters arrived, seeking to settle.” Vortipor briefly wondered if the Pendragon was listening, for his expression was so immobile and distant. Damn it, he needed help! Was entitled to help. “We drove them off, burnt their huts, tortured the men, killed the few women they had brought with them. But I cannot continue to do so alone, not if more of them come. As this year, we expect.”
More had been coming across the sea from Hibernia each year, seeking new places, now Mon had been cleared of their rats’ nests by the Gwynedd lord.
Arthur was listening, but his thoughts were wandering, idling. He welcomed being out here in the open, beneath the wild touch of the wind and the first spattering of rain. To have the smell of sea air in your nostrils, the sounds of the rugged waves in your ears. Even darkness was un-intimidating out here. The golden glimmer of the moon, the silver sheen of stars, the call of an owl or vixen. It was walls that shut all these things out. Walls that leant in on you, crowding, crushing. Arthur filled his lungs with the unfettered smell of the open. The winter had been long and long in passing. Fraught with the physical pain from his leg and shoulder and ribs, damaged by the mental anguish of knowing now that Medraut could never follow him as King. To be King, you need be either respected or feared. Medraut they would always treat with contempt and suspicion.
The sea. Wide. Open. On the other side, another land on a distant shore. The sea, harbouring a different menace. He had Cerdic to worry about, Vortipor had the Hibernians.
“You have enough to pay men handsomely for the use of their swords,” Arthur said. “You ought to have a sufficient army loyal to you.”
“Not an army such as yours.”
Arthur replaced his war cap, fastened the strap. He turned Brenin, heeled him into a trot, heading away from the cliffs, dipping down into the hollow of the valley, out of the wind, away from the heavier rain that was starting to squall. “Then train them, Vortipor, as I have had to do.”
Vortipor watched Arthur ride down to join his waiting escort. “Four turmae. That is all the men I need!” he called.
“One,” Arthur shouted back, trotting onward.
“Three!”
“Two.”
“I accept!” Vortipor scratched at the beard growth around his chin. Two turmae of Artoriani. It would be enough, with his own men and those mercenaries he already paid. More than he had hoped. The Pendragon had spared only one turma for Gwynedd and Ceredigion together last year. None for Amlawdd.
Vortipor kicked his mount into a trot, going in the direction opposite to that which Arthur and his men had taken. The Pendragon was to head north, up to Powys and Gwynedd. He, Vortipor would ride for home, back to the voluptuous delight of his wife. Amlawdd. Hah! He had tried to take her for his own, had failed, it was Vortipor she had accepted as her mate.
A second time, then, that Vortipor had fared better than the contemptuous weasel!
He halted his stallion on a rise, turned, could just make out the Pendragon’s banner disappearing into the shadowed cleft of the valley. For now, they all relied on Arthur to sustain their strength and defence. God’s truth, it was fortunate they still had him! The Artoriani were the most efficient gold could buy. Under Ambrosius’s brief rule… Vortipor closed his eyes against the fear shuddering through him. Best not think of it!
He pushed his mount into a trot, shook his head sorrowfully. They needed Arthur but the man was a fool where women were concerned. Eight days he had spent here in Dyfed, intended to pass as many in Powys and Gwynedd, add as many more for the journey here and travelling back… almost the month he would be gone from Caer Cadan. A month around and he had left his wife alone with Bedwyr! God alone could guess what advantage they would take of it, were even half of the spread rumours true.
And then there was Amlawdd, invited by the Pendragon to remain as guest at the Caer while he was away.
The rain was scalding hard now, coming straight in grey sheets of coldness. Vortipor urged his horse into a fast canter. He supposed the Pendragon knew what he was doing. Gods, he hoped so, for if Amlawdd was to take advantage of his absence…“ Christ and all the Holy Saints,” Vortipor swore the oath aloud, “I would rather follow that Saxon whoreson, Cerdic, than bow to the oiled bastard, Amlawdd, and his protégé whelp, Aurelius Caninus!”
April 488
XXXVII
“If that bloody man does not leave here soon, I swear I shall slit his throat!” Gwenhwyfar flounced to the couch, flopped into it, began removing her boots, her fingers irritably unlacing the leather thongs.
“You must wait your turn then,” Bedwyr laughed offering little sympathy. “There is a queue from here to Rome for the privilege!” He was at Arthur’s desk, sorting through the paraphernalia of letters and petitions; tossed the parchment in his hand onto a growing pile of correspondence that needed primary attention. “What is his latest offence?”
“Amlawdd,” Gwenhwyfar spoke the name as if it were poison, “has ordered the men to go out on overnight patrol on the morrow.” There came no response of indignation or anger. She lifted her head abruptly, frowned across her chamber at Bedwyr, suspiciously asked, “Did you know about it?”
Bedwyr twirled a stylus between his fingers, had the decency to redden slightly. He cleared his throat. “Um, aye.” Embarrassed, he poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Did you, er, countermand it then?”
“And allow the men to believe I am not in command while Arthur is away?” she retorted. Added sharply, “Although it seems I am not.”
She kicked off the second boot, began searching for her house-shoes, peering beneath the couch, a table, her agitated manner indicating all too well her ruffled temper. “If ever my husband invites Amlawdd as guest here again while he is gone to visit the tribal lords, I’ll… ” she peered around the room, her hands flapping like wind-tossed flags, “I’ll s
lit his throat also!” She knelt on the floor, felt beneath the couch. “I do not require him here for my protection. I have a Caer full of Artoriani – did have, until you stupidly agreed to have most of them sent off!”
“I’m here to protect you, not Amlawdd. And it was not stupid.”
Standing again, she did not hear him. “I spent all that while alone while he was in Gaul.” Where in damn hell had she put those shoes? “Ider stays closer to me than my own shadow.”
“As do I.”
“And Arthur calmly suggests to Amlawdd I need protecting? From what? Who? Inane morons who send the Artoriani on unnecessary patrols mayhap?” She stalked to the hearth place, snatched her shoes from beside the log pile.
“I had reason, Gwen.”
“Damned insufferable, interfering bastard!”
“Who, me?”
Gwenhwyfar paused, the left shoe half on her foot. Relented, laughed. “No, bonehead. Amlawdd.” She crossed to him, patted his shoulder affectionately. Thank the gods for Bedwyr! If it were not for his humour she would probably have thrown herself in desperation from the watchtower by now.
Lightly, with one hand, she ruffled Bedwyr’s hair, idled her other through the letters on the desk. Oh, Arthur had told her why he intended to encourage Amlawdd and the boy, Caninus, to come to Caer Cadan. The whispering on the wind had grown louder in its rustling through the winter. There was no doubt it was Amlawdd who had supplied those traded weapons to Cerdic. No doubt either, he was aiming to advance Caninus as Arthur’s successor. Typical Amlawdd, to plant one foot in either camp. No doubts, but no proof. “My lands are vulnerable while I am away,” Arthur had told her, “I would feel easier with those two firm in view.”
He had not told her how he had intended to get them here, but whatever it had been, it worked, for Amlawdd was at the gates of Caer Cadan no less than two days after Arthur would have taken his leave from him. More than four weeks past, that had been. Arthur had already promised Vortipor the men he needed, and had visited Gwynedd. He was in Powys now, so his last letter, arrived four days since, had said.
It was a wise decision to entice Amlawdd here, yet the mood between Gwenhwyfar and Arthur had not been as warm and congenial as it ought when he had left, and yet again she wondered at part of the reason behind the invitation. For if she and Bedwyr were watching Amlawdd and his young ward, then equally, had they eye on them?
She tossed the insidious thought aside. Arthur trusted her, he did not believe she was bedding with Bedwyr. Did he? Those vile comments Medraut had disgorged – for all it was nonsense because he was angry with the pain of hurting inside – it had rekindled those flickering doubts that she knew had never entirely fled from Arthur’s mind. Once before, long, long ago, he had fought with a man over just such a stirred lie. Who was it? Strange how your mind forgot such things.
She had wandered over to the couch, sat, was fiddling with her earring – my God, she thought, of course! It was Hueil! Hueil who had accused her of adultery. They had fought, he and Arthur, and Hueil had drawn a dagger, which had somehow wounded her eldest boy, Llacheu. She unthreaded the earring from her lobe, held its delicate silvered beauty in the palm of her hand. How the wheel turns in its circle. That time, Llacheu had escaped, not badly hurt; but later, because of Hueil’s treachery, her son was to be brutally slain.
If he had lived. Or had Amr not been drowned, Gwydre not gored by that boar. She sighed. There was no unpicking the pattern once it had been woven. She breathed deeply through her nose, re-threaded her earring where it belonged. “The Artoriani, tomorrow. Explanation please, Bedwyr. And make it good.”
Bedwyr set down the parchment in his hand, leant back in his chair, tipping it slightly. “It is Amlawdd’s Birthing Day – had you forgotten? He has organised a celebration feast for the Gathering and he suggested,” Bedwyr paused, idly waved a vague hand – ordered would have been more appropriate, but Bedwyr’s own pride was as near to bursting as Gwenhwyfar’s. “Has suggested the Hall would become overfull with Artoriani and his own men. That could cause trouble, which would look ill for your hospitality.” And would augur bad fortune for Amlawdd during the coming year.
“What men?” Gwenhwyfar interrupted.
“Er, those arriving on the morrow.” Hastily, Bedwyr added, “A few only, he assures me, guests, nobles, a few lords. Friends.”
“Friends? Amlawdd? Does he possess any?”
Seeing the rise of temper about to boil again, Bedwyr lurched on, “I did not think it wise to insist our men pay honour to a man we have small patience with. For them to have deliberately kept away could cause embarrassment for you, so…”
“So you played into Amlawdd’s hands and have allowed the Caer to fall into half-strength defence. My God, Bedwyr,” abruptly she stood, strode across the room to face him across her husband’s desk. “Arthur will be furious with us for this!”
Patience wearing thin, Bedwyr slammed his chair forward, barked, “It was Arthur’s bloody suggestion!”
Incredulous, Gwenhwyfar stood, her palms laid flat on the desktop, staring at the man before her.
“He suggested it when he was at Amlawdd’s stronghold. It is all a part of his strategy.”
“What strategy?” Gwenhwyfar asked coldly. “And why did he not tell me of it?”
Opening his mouth to yell some equally belligerent answer, Bedwyr paused, said instead, “I do not know why, I think because he did not want us to give the wrong reactions. He is rather hoping Amlawdd may do something rash on the morrow.” And he told her what Arthur had arranged.
Gwenhwyfar leant forward, closed her eyes. She was tired, had been awake for most of the night and through the morning. “Arthur is taking a risk with this,” she said, looking up, her eyes holding a slight, questioning glance.
“To hunt, you need release your hawk,” Bedwyr answered. “There is always the risk she will fly free and not return.”
“And Arthur hopes Amlawdd and the boy will try for freedom?” Bedwyr could only shrug, spread his hands. “And us?” Gwenhwyfar asked. “Has he thought we too may fly free, were he to unleash our tether?
XXXVIII
Medraut squatted before the hearth-place, one hand clasped around yet another goblet of wine, the other idly poking the dull glow of the fire into more cheering bursts of flame. An hour yet until the evening Gather, the feasting of Amlawdd’s Birthing Day. He took two gulps of wine. Sighed. He was bored.
“You would do better to find useful employment rather than be under my feet,” Cywyllog admonished, threading a new colour of wool onto her shuttle.
Medraut made no answer. He had long since ceased responding to his wife. On his mind, a persistent question. Why did his father allow him to stay here at Caer Cadan? Because he was his heir? But he would never become King. He was too stupid, too afraid. It would have to be Archfedd’s boy, Constantine, who followed the Pendragon. Natanlius was capable to rule as Regent until the lad came of age. So why else did Arthur tolerate his continuing presence here? He was of no use to anyone, did nothing save sleep and drink and avoid his wife.
There was only the one answer. No other had come, not in all these past weeks of thinking. He was here because his father did not trust him.
So many times had he wanted to explain about that awful day with his mother in that bothy; how he had come to be there, that he had not known about Cerdic – had not even known the man to be Cerdic. Gods! The thought of his mother and… his stomach again turned, nauseated. That was why he had so badly insulted Gwenhwyfar, of course. Because he was hurting at what his mother had so ashamedly become. Those words had hurt, had rubbed salt deep into the wound, and he had lashed out, screaming from the pain of it. He jabbed the stick into the fire. How he hoped the bitch who had birthed him was roasting in the flames of Hell!
“If you had any sense, not that you have,” what was Cywyllog scolding now? “You would be more civil to Lord Caninus. You would fare better under his service than wasting your days here. God’s tr
uth, why ever I wed with you I will never understand!” She hustled the shuttle through the warp threads. “Does your father treat you with the respect you deserve? Na, he does not. Does he give you the authority you ought to have? Hah! He ignores his own son and gives responsibility of the Caer to that womaniser, Bedwyr! Why? Because you are a useless fit for nothing.”
Turning his head, Medraut regarded his wife. How could a woman be so consistently spiteful?
Impatient with him she dropped the shuttle, swung away from the loom, her skirt brushing the hang of the stone weights, setting them swaying and bobbing, clicking against each other. “Caninus will be the Pendragon’s successor, not you. As much I am saddled with a dumb ox for a husband, I have no wish for widowhood. Expect death when he takes the royal torque as his own or make alliance with him now. Without it, he cannot let you live.”
Medraut stared at her, made no answer. Had she been pretty once? Curiously, he could not remember. He did not even recall liking her when he was a child at Ambrosius’s school. He tried to conjure images of the past. Gildas, her youngest brother, came easily to mind; his small, serious face, those incessant questions of his, concerning death and murder. That was linked to his brother, Hueil, although Medraut did not realise it at the time. Cywyllog had deliberately poisoned the boy’s mind. Was that where the rot had started festering in her? With Hueil’s execution?
Years of scowling had puckered Cywyllog’s mouth and nose, had narrowed her eyes. Her hair she swept back into a tight coil; at night she kept it braided; he had never seen it swing loose and lovely, like Gwenhwyfar’s, or his mother’s.
“Ask yourself why Amlawdd is here with the lad.”
The answer slipped from Medraut’s mouth. “Because he is a whoreson bastard who would delight in placing Caninus as King now, rather than politely wait for my father to die?” He had meant it as sarcasm, but Cywyllog darted forward, grasped his arm, her face thrusting near his own, pointed, shrew-like.
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