Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  “Exactly! And if we are to survive the coming slaughter, then we must show our support for Caninus now!”

  Shrugging off her clasping fingers, Medraut slowly rose to his feet. “What slaughter?” he asked, suspicion meandering into his wine-dulled brain.

  Aware she had let her tongue over-loose, Cywyllog covered her blunder. “It is common speculation. Caninus will try for the Kingdom one day. When he does, it would be better were you to ride with him. He may even parcel some of it out to you. That is more than you can expect from your father!”

  Medraut drained the wine, ambled to the small table, refilled his goblet from the flagon. “You could have a good point, wife,” he said.

  Cywyllog closed her eyes, relaxed. Almost, she had said too much too soon. Yet she had to make this fool man agree with Caninus, and had to make him see sense before tonight!

  Turning around, Medraut propped his backside against the table edge. “You are forgetting two things, though. One, I will never willingly betray my father, and two, Cerdic is unlikely to allow a whelp like Caninus to steal what he regards as his.”

  XXXIX

  The prospect of celebration and feasting would normally be greeted with enthusiasm and good cheer, but few within Caer Cadan held an eagerness to drink Amlawdd’s good health. Reluctance heightened during the passing of the day with the arrival of several dozen of Amlawdd’s swaggering men, acting as generously donated escort to the few invited merchantmen and traders from the scattered settlements along the busy coast and Hafren estuary.

  “There are too many men in this Hall I do not know,” Gwenhwyfar whispered. Bedwyr agreed, but said nothing, his unease amplifying as each half-hour passed. The Hall was crowded with the followers and supporters of both Amlawdd and Caninus, men from the settlements held under Amlawdd’s lordship, strong men, fighting men. Strategically picked for escort duty.

  There appeared nothing sinister about Amlawdd’s attitude. He was eating, drinking and making merry with the rest of them; roaring for the harper to play a tune, laughing often with the eight-and-ten-year-old lad, Caninus, who sat beside him in the place of honour at the high table, Gwenhwyfar’s graceful gesture. “Today is for your honour, not mine. Please, you and your chosen guests be seated at the high table.”

  She and Bedwyr sat, content, at a lower, quieter table. Mind, she had ensured Arthur’s carved oak chair be removed from the public Hall. He might sit at Arthur’s table but most certainly Amlawdd would not have Arthur’s chair!

  His men were drinking with no immoderate care, voices growing louder with the rise of laughter and jesting banter. Those from the Caer were to drink with care. Mind and reaction were too easily muddled by the effect of a strong brew. Keep a clear head this night, by order of the Queen. Bedwyr had seen to it that word had spread. In Gwenhwyfar’s name, it would be obeyed.

  No objection had been raised by any of Amlawdd’s men – not even by Caninus – to the search for secreted weapons as each guest had entered the Hall. It was customary for swords, daggers, to be left outside the main door when entering, only an eating knife was permissible and the King could carry his sword. Amlawdd himself had made an expressive show of leaving his sword with the doorkeeper, of there being nothing hidden in his boot, under his tunic. “We want no unpleasantness on this special day, do we?” His voice had boomed laughter right up into the smoke-wreathed roof-beams.

  With the main feasting ended, the trestle tables were cleared, the benches pushed to the sides of the Hall and the dancing and entertainment begun. Making polite withdrawal to Amlawdd, Gwenhwyfar left the Hall, as was her right if she so chose. Bedwyr sat alone at a table in one corner, nursing a goblet. Watching. Trouble was coming, he was certain. It was as recognisable as a thunderstorm gathering along the horizon. The difficulty here, to judge from which direction and in what form. And when.

  The young men of Caninus’s admiring group of friends had already singled out the prettier young girls of the Caer for themselves, their fumbling hands becoming more intimate with the progression of each whirling, breathless dance and the consumption of more of the fine wine and ale. Amlawdd, also, had secured for himself a pretty redhead. To Cywyllog’s annoyance. She had done all as he had asked, hidden the daggers in those empty barrels over near the latrines. None suspected, none would realise, as each man went out weaponless, he returned with a hidden blade.

  A while since, Amlawdd had gone to relieve himself. Cywyllog, serving ale to a group of loud-laughing men saw him re-enter, the red-haired serving girl clinging to his arm. Both were rumpled, the girl’s tunic partially unfastened. With quick steps, Cywyllog made her way through the press of the crowd, snatched a tankard up from a table as she passed.

  “Ale, my lord?” she said, thrusting the tankard into his hand, as she neatly elbowed the red-hair aside. “When?” she hissed into Amlawdd’s ear. “You leave things too late!”

  “On the contrary.” He leered drunkenly into her face, spewing fumes of wine and beer, his speech slurred. He patted the girl on the buttocks, indicated she was to lose herself. She scowled, lingered a moment, for she had hoped for good payment. At Amlawdd’s growl, she trotted off to find reward elsewhere. “It will begin soon,” Amlawdd said to Cywyllog. “Rest easy. Bedwyr seems sufficiently bored, happen we can liven the celebration up for him in a while, eh?” Amlawdd laughed, pressed his hand over her breast. “You’ve fine teats, woman, hope your man appreciates them as much as he appreciates what you’re doing for him!”

  Cywyllog scraped his paw from her body, held on to his wrist. “I do this for myself and my murdered brother,” she snapped. “I have been long and patient in the waiting for it!” She jerked her hand away from his arm. “Just make sure you and Caninus remember what I have done for you when the time comes for remembering!” Tossing her head, she whirled away from him, slammed the ale flagon into the hands of a passing serving girl, and withdrew from the Hall, head pert, steps quick-tapping on the wooden floor.

  Out in the fresh air she leant against the wall, her eyes shut, savouring the coolness that fell on her face, swirled around her sweating body. She had been trembling as she had left the Hall, trembling because she had done it at last! Had taken her revenge on the Pendragon. By morning his wife and companions would all be dead, and Caer Cadan would be in the hands of Amlawdd and Aurelius Caninus.

  XL

  Aiding Cerdic, Amlawdd had decided, was wasted effort. He could wait until the Day of Judgement before that one decided to make a move. But then, why worry? After all, he had a foot planted either side of the stream. His second intention was to supplant Arthur with Aurelius Caninus. When the Pendragon had vaguely suggested he spend a while as guest at Caer Cadan, Amlawdd had leapt at the invitation like a cat catching a rat. Now was his chance to begin the Pendragon’s downfall!

  His plan: Caninus was to goad Bedwyr into a brawl. Most of the Artoriani were away on patrol, those left would eat and drink at the feast, and be unarmed. The fight would be brief and bloody, for his men would have their daggers. It would spill over beyond the Hall and Gwenhwyfar would be oh, so tragically killed, along with the bastard-born Medraut. In the confusion that would follow Amlawdd would take command, in the name of Aurelius Caninus, and set the lad as King.

  That was the plan, except Amlawdd was not talented as a leader, preferring his drink and his women rather than concentrating on important timing. A moment after Cywyllog had admonished Amlawdd for delaying, Bedwyr unexpectedly rose from table and retreated through the door into Gwenhwyfar’s private chamber before Caninus had managed to hurl even a single abusive remark.

  She was already abed, reading through Arthur’s last-sent letter. She greeted Bedwyr with a smile, the dogs stretched before the hearth-fire doing no more than lift their heads and thump their tails in greeting. “I complained of a headache. What is your excuse?”

  His hands in the air, palms flat, Bedwyr blew out his cheeks, shook his head. “Preservation of sanity?” He quipped. “My God, am I glad we do no
t have a surfeit of men out there – the excitement is so riveting they would be slashing their own throats to provide entertainment.” He gestured with his hand and expression, asking whether he had permission to enter the chamber. She nodded.

  He crossed to the table, poured himself wine, asked by raising the wine jug whether she wanted any. She did. “I cannot stay long, I will need keep a watch on the Hall, have merely come to bid you a good night,” he said, his back to her as he poured, “and to assure you all will be well.”

  There were times when Bedwyr wondered how he survived without having Gwenhwyfar as his own. Days when he remembered and remembered how they had talked and laughed together as a betrothed couple. Long nights when the intimacy they had shared made his groin throb with wanting. His hand shook slightly as he poured her wine. She looked so lovely sitting there. He could not have her, she could not be his… Never would he betray Arthur, except in thought. Never at all would she.

  She must have read something of those thoughts for as he turned, a goblet in each hand, she said, “When my husband asks if I have been faithful to him, I will only answer him with the truth, Bedwyr.”

  He stood, his head drooping, staring at the floor.

  “I am fond of you,” she said, “we are friends. But this truth I must tell you, I have never loved you as I love Arthur. Nor shall I.”

  Putting a brave face on his torment, Bedwyr settled a smile onto his mouth as he lifted his head. “I am thinking I may travel again soon. I have a fancy to see the great pyramid tombs where the Egyptian kings lie buried. And Athens. There are many places I still have not seen.”

  Holding out her hand for him to bring her the wine, Gwenhwyfar returned his smile. “I will never stop you from following where your feet must lead, but do not waste your life running from what must be, Bedwyr.” As he began walking towards her, she added, the laughter shining in her eyes, “You have loved with many a young girl, my friend. I would advocate you find for yourself a wife – why not a dark-skinned Egyptian?”

  Bedwyr’s amusement echoed her own, he lengthened his stride, was distracted by a sudden rise of noise from the Hall. He turned his head, forgot the dog stretched in sleep between himself and the bed, tripped. Lurching forward, Gwenhwyfar’s reaction was to try and steady him. One goblet fell from his grasp, the other, as he overbalanced, cascaded wine down the front of her undershift and over the bed furs, splashed down Bedwyr’s tunic. Soaked, the red stain rapidly spreading, the fine-woven silk clung to her flesh, emphasising the shape of her breasts. Throwing the emptied goblet aside, concerned, Bedwyr patted at the patch of wetness, knelt in a puddle of wine collected in a fold of the bed fur, tried to move away quickly, became entangled and tumbled forward, pinning Gwenhwyfar to the bed. She lay laughing helplessly, beneath him.

  Medraut considered he would probably be enjoying himself more, were he to be stuck, horseless, in the middle of open moorland during the blackest part of the night, while a thunderstorm raged. Even the annual clearing of the midden heap would be preferable to hearing one more of Aurelius Caninus’s grossly exaggerated tales of personal bravado. Because they had spent a while at the same school together, Caninus had assumed Medraut would want to share in the entertainment and conversation of his friends. There was nothing further from Medraut’s preference, but without offering insult, he had no choice but to accept the invitation to sit with the rowdy, half-drunken group. Mind, Medraut himself had as much wine in his belly – if not more.

  “Not dancing?” Caninus, breathing heavily and sweating profusely from the exertion of the spirited reel just finished, flopped onto the bench. He reached over, took the wine from Medraut’s hand and thirstily gulped the remainder of its contents, wiped residue from his moustache. “I suppose with a wife as sour as yours, you would not have much inclination for dancing though, eh?” He nudged at Medraut’s elbow, pointed at the redhead Amlawdd had been leering over for most of the evening. “Now there’s one worth a tumble in the hay! I would like to have more than just a look at those paps of hers!” He held the goblet for a slave to refill.

  “You ought try for a whore, get your exercise on her if your wife’s not accommodating you.” He guffawed, nudged Medraut’s arm again. “Even if she is, a little extra riding never did a man harm!” He turned to his friends, sharing the jest with them.

  Although lank, Caninus was a young man with deceptive strength in his muscles; had very much the Pendragon look about him – brown hair, piercing eyes, long, straight nose. That was as far as the resemblance went, for his character and poor judgement were crude. Arrogant, churlishly abusive, and more often than not, drunk and in the company of whores. It was as well his kindred were no more. The two who had brought him into the world, such gentle, kind-hearted people, now long cold in their graves, and Ambrosius Aurelianus, his grandsire, a man of God. If ever there was a contender for a changeling babe, then Caninus was he – until one remembered his other grandsire was Amlawdd!

  One of the men nudged Caninus’s elbow, nodded across the Hall, pointed. “Bedwyr.”

  “Well, would you believe it!” Caninus chortled. “We have found gold, my friends. Pure gold!” He eye-searched the crowded Hall, Arthur’s men clustered in their groups to one side, Amlawdd’s to the other. Amlawdd himself, talking to Medraut’s scowling wife. “Lord Bedwyr has played himself for a fool!” He stood, caught Amlawdd’s gaze, urgently waved at him to come across the Hall.

  “What do you mean?” Medraut asked, suspicious, brows furrowed, part of his attention watching Cywyllog leave through the Hall’s side door, part glancing around the Hall for his father’s cousin. He had been sitting at that table over there a moment past.

  Incredulous, Caninus regarded Medraut. Did he really not understand? Was the oaf either so drunk or so blind? Hah! Was it any wonder he would never make King? “Why think you we were sent here? Because Amlawdd is a great friend of Arthur’s? Because I am his choice of heir? The Pendragon assumed Bedwyr would not dare bed the Queen while we were here to keep watch on the both of them. Obviously the Pendragon miscounted the lure of a whore’s enticement!”

  Amlawdd was striding over, his authority parting groups of men and women before him.

  “We have him, Amlawdd!” Caninus crowed. “Right into our hands, we have good reason for confrontation and not a word out of place said from our side.” He indicated Gwenhwyfar’s chamber door, his grin broadening to match that glowing on Amlawdd’s face.

  Swinging around to face all those gathered in the Hall, Amlawdd raised his arms, roared in his mighty voice, “Traitors! Damned, lying traitors!” Eyes, bodies, attention, swivelled to Amlawdd, conversation stopped, laughter ceased. In a few quick strides, Amlawdd was crossing the room, drawing a dagger from his boot. “Bedwyr and the Queen, in there!” He pointed the dagger at the door ahead of him, “Making mockery of the Pendragon!”

  Daggers were coming into the hands of others, Amlawdd’s men, their drunkenness sobering quickly. The few Artoriani looked to one another helplessly, bewildered. What was this? What was happening?

  Medraut, too, was confused. Words reverberating in his wine-addled mind. “If we are to survive the coming slaughter... show support for Caninus…” God’s truth, what was this? He leapt to his feet, hauled at Caninus’s arm, saw the dagger glinting there, in his hand.

  “This is treason!” he cried, attempting to wrestle the dagger from the other young man’s grip. “You cannot displace my father!”

  Grappling this unexpected opponent, Caninus attempted to shake Medraut off, tried to alter the grip on the dagger. It was no worry to him if Medraut died here, or later. His face was close to Medraut’s as they struggled together, breath hot on each other’s cheeks. “Why defend him? What has your father done for you? Does he treat you with the respect deserved for a son? Does he listen to you, take note of what you say? Did you not warn him his wife was bedding his cousin? Well, now we have proof!”

  Breathing hard, Medraut knocked the dagger aside, it fell to the
floor, skimmed away a few yards. There was confusion all around, men beginning to fight, Arthur’s men, unarmed, attempting to defend the chamber doorway with weapons of stools, the jagged ends of a broken flagon. Amlawdd’s men striking at them with sharpened blades.

  “You cannot do this!” Medraut screamed, “I will not allow you to depose my father!”

  Caninus hit him, a punch to the jaw that sent him reeling, fastened his hand around Medraut’s throat. “Who are you to oppose me? You, the bastard spawn of a bitch who thought nothing of spreading her legs for her own brother!”

  Medraut’s hand had been trying to force the grip away from his windpipe. He let go, his skin draining white. Caninus released his grip, licked his dry lips, took a small step backward. That information had been told him in confidence by Amlawdd, it was to be used later, once supremacy had been secured for their own purpose, used to gain sympathy among the Christians, to discredit Arthur, to bring to themselves the advantage of righteous conquest. Once made public knowledge, Amlawdd could not use it to full advantage. It was to remain their final ambush, their secret weapon.

  The words hammered in Medraut’s ears. Mother’s brother. Mother’s brother. Arthur was his mother’s brother? The sickness rose in his throat, caught at his guts, twisting and crushing. Was this true? Was this just another lie, another trick? Who would say with certainty this spread of dung was lies? Arthur would know, but he was not here… Gwenhwyfar?

  With a snarl, Medraut shoved Caninus aside, pushed his way through the melee of men, across the Hall to the private door. Arthur’s men let him through, he was the King’s son. His fingers clicked the latch, thrust it downward, propelling the door open. In his rage and sodden distress, marched through with no announcement, no permission to enter.