Medraut stretched his right hand across the bench. Save for one ring, he wore no adornment, no ornate rings, no armbands, though there were the lighter marks against his skin where such things had rested. The one ring was a battered gold thing. “This,” he said, “was given to my mother by my father, from before the time of my birthing. It is all I now have of him.” He withdrew his hand, rubbed his left thumb affectionately over it. “I have no honour of my own left to me, but on my father’s honour.” He lifted his head, gazed earnestly at the smith, “I do not come to murder Cerdic.”
He had thought of it. Oh, many nights he had lain, planning ways of putting an end to the whoreson. But what purpose would it serve? He would need kill the son also, Cynric, who was ten and eight, a man grown, and with a young wife already swelling with child. She, too, would need ending, to ensure the line was finished. Killing outside of battle was against God’s law. If Cerdic was to die, then it must be done openly, where Arthur alone could take the victory from it. A knife wielded secret in the dark would not solve this thing.
“I have nothing,” Medraut admitted openly, “only these few pieces of silver to sell. My father has cast me from him, my sister shuns me. My own people, the British, spit in my face. What have I left, but to find for myself a new home, a new people?” He shrugged, resigned to his fate. “Cerdic seeks men to fight in his name. He gives them reward of gold and silver, spears and shields, food in their bellies, his Mead Hall to sleep in and a woman to lie with. I have none of this from the British. I wish to speak with Cerdic, for I wish to join with him.”
April 489
XLV
Walking down the cobbled lane running steeply up through the heights of the ramparts, Gwenhwyfar could see Arthur on the far side of the nearest paddock. There were a few foals already, the early born, long-legged and gangling, dancing beside their fat-bellied dams. The sun was warm this day, the new-hatched midges bothersome; with the mares’ tails constantly swishing. Arthur had stopped to talk to one of the foals, a handsome dark-coated colt – he would turn grey as he grew older, would make a fine height if the length of leg was anything to go by. Gwenhwyfar smiled as she watched Arthur offer the colt a crust of stale bread. He kept his waist pouch full of morsels this time of year for the foals, though he was all too often saying it spoilt them to offer tit-bits. He was good with horses, more patient than with men. You could expect loyalty from a horse, and trust. Not so with men; sons.
Gwenhwyfar stood, shielding her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun, watching as Arthur parted from the foal, walked to the small mound of earth in the far corner that was only just beginning to grass over. Had she done right to allow Medraut to run, to disappear into exile? At the time, she thought she had, was not so certain now.
Britain was at peace. A golden age of content, they were calling it. Aye, even the fusty, pedantic men of Council. The English lands, too, were settled and thriving. Intermarriages were commonplace, with the two cultures in certain areas, especially the East Anglian and North Humbrian lands, mutually blending together. English husband, British wife.
“They will grow stronger than the British one day,” Arthur had once confided to Gwenhwyfar. “The English are a determined and rugged people.”
He had stopped beside the mound, stood with head bowed. If he mourned Medraut’s loss, he had not outwardly shown it, though Gwenhwyfar knew the wounding had speared deep. For Onager, however, Arthur openly grieved.
She resumed walking, but had changed her mind about visiting Rhonwen at the tavern. The woman’s fifth child was due within this week, with the pregnancy a difficult one, but she could always call on her later. Instead, she continued on down the hill, across the rutted lane, and let herself through the hazel-laced fencing of the foaling paddock. She, too, put out her hand to the grey foal, his soft, delicate nose whispering, curious, at her hand. No bread from her. It was Arthur who spoilt the foals.
Without speaking, she threaded her arm around her husband’s waist, a squeeze of understanding comfort. He too, said nothing, enfolded her hand within his. Onager, a bastard of a horse at times, but how often had his courage and strength saved Arthur? No man among the Artoriani had thought it a weakness when Arthur had ordered the great horse to be buried here, in this spot where the sun settled for most the day. They all had special thought for their horses – for some of the men, more so than their wives. A horse, they would laugh, does not answer you back!
“Do you think it has truth behind it, this latest rumour?” Arthur asked.
What could she answer? Lie, and know he knew she lied. Reply with the truth, and drive the spear further? “It is never wise to trust rumour that cannot be substantiated, but aye, this one I believe.”
Where else would Medraut have gone? There were no other reports of him, and few loyal to Arthur would have cared to take him in. The ring of truth behind words whispered on the wind, was too sound to be ignored. Medraut had been caught into Amlawdd’s net of intrigue, and Amlawdd had trudged dangerously close to Cerdic’s heel.
Arthur sighed, linked Gwenhwyfar’s arm through his own. Truth or malicious taunting, either way there was little he could do. They would know about Medraut one way or another, eventually, soon, when Cerdic made his mind to move the men he had been massing away from the thin line of his held land and into Arthur’s territory.
I should have slit his throat when I had chance, Gwenhwyfar thought. “Come,” Arthur said to her, “I have more productive things to be doing above standing mewling over a horse’s grave.”
XLVI
The Feast, an occasion that symbolised more than the consumption of food and drink: Gegadorwiste, the Assembly for Plenty; a gathering intended for celebration and social pleasure, for entertainment, the exchange of news and to pledge homage. To eat and drink at the provider’s table was to declare openly, for all to see, the agreement of support and a pledge to fight to the death. For the lord, the leader, to provide more than mere food and wine or mead, to give an image of plenty, an atmosphere of wealth and harmony, stability and coherence, in a world where conflict and uncertainty was the experience of the many. The English Feast.
Medraut hated them, and Cerdic held them often. A great lord had the need to show his wealth and status; for Cerdic, the extra need to instil into his followers that he had every intention to become their king one day – and that the day of reckoning was fast approaching.
The summoning horn had blown three hours past – and what a gathering of fine-dressed, strong men had made way to their benches! The usual shuffling for position of course, the best place: to be seated at the end of a bench, to be served first; the most prestigious of all, to be asked to the higher tables where cushions made the seating more comfortable, and the choicest portions were served. Some of the usual scuffling by those who considered they should be placed higher up the Hall, nearer the lord’s dais; one or two exchanges of payment for the privilege to be seated at his table.
The Hall had looked splendid, draped with wall hangings threaded with gold and silver, and all the shields, spears and weapons hung there. The higher tables laden with gleaming silverware, brimming jugs of ale and wine, baskets of bread and fruit; servants waiting with silver bowls for the ritual washing of hands, the ordered effect disintegrating as the hours wore on, as the Hall became hotter, the participants rowdier.
Medraut – although he was half-brother – did not warrant a seat at Cerdic’s table among the honoured lords and thegns. He was seated lower down: not, for him, an honourable position, but Medraut did not complain – indeed, the further from his brother, the better.
The two hated each other with a distaste as strong as rancid cheese, yet Cerdic saw the wisdom of keeping eye on the one who could oppose him, and Medraut had no choice but to stay, although there were times when the temptation to walk out of the stronghold gate and not return was often great.
He had settled well among the fighting men, learning to disregard their lewd humour and rough ways. He was no
t treated unkindly or made to look the fool. No man would openly insult the brother of their lord, even if that lord made such things regular habit. Cerdic made Medraut’s life into misery whenever the two came into close contact – which was rarely, as Medraut saw to it that where his brother was, he was not. Until a Feast was called.
Feasting highlighted Medraut’s harboured resentments. Cerdic had for himself a fine Hall, retainers, loyal men, and a pleasant woman to serve the wine, to share his bed. Cerdic had the courage to decide his own law, his own fate. What had Medraut to his name? A mother who had been a notorious whore, who had produced him through the sin of incest, and a father who now despised him.
They were bellowing laughter at the high table, the boom of merriment hitting the smoke-swirled rafters with the thunder of a thrown boulder. Cerdic, with Cynric his son sitting aside his right hand; Cerdic’s woman, his wife, to his left. A small, demure lady, who rarely spoke, rarely lifted her eyes. There was no reason to believe Cerdic treated her cruelly, yet there was no show of love between them either. She had borne him no children. Cynric himself had three daughters by different women – and one in the belly of his taken wife. They were sweet little girls, with dimpled smiles and flaxen hair, welcomed at Cerdicesora as all Saxon men welcomed their offspring, whether legitimate or no. Another bellow, more laughter. Cerdic’s wife rose to bring the wine again to the men of the three highest tables. Medraut, sitting at the far end of a bench, was one of the last for her to serve.
“See,” Cerdic roared, wine dribbling from his lips, “my wife pours wine for the whoreson bastard! The boy who poked his thumb at the great Pendragon, our father!” Cerdic was well into his drink, the gluttony of over-indulgence almost a prerequisite for the rules of enjoyment. He belched, pointed with unsteady hand at Medraut.
“On your feet, boy, let us all look at you so we might recognise a traitor when we see one!”
No use Medraut protesting, for that would only enrage his half-brother, and Cerdic in a temper was an ugly experience. Already Medraut bore scars on his shoulders from where Cerdic had ordered him a beating for defiance. On his feet, Medraut judiciously kept his head lowered, schooled the anger from his reddened face. The taunts would continue a while until Cerdic found another unfortunate to condemn, or a loyal friend to praise.
“Before you,” Cerdic’s voice boomed, “stands a dog turd who slithered from the womb of a mare who could be ridden by any who fancied scratching at the itch on his piece. She had breasts like a cow’s udder and a sex as open as the sky in summer. I know, for I rode her often – and I rode her at the gallop, no fancy trotting and prancing for me!”
Enduring the insults, Medraut could feel his heart beating faster, the pump of his veins thudding. He would insult Arthur next. As always. It came.
Cerdic had stumbled to his feet, was waving his tankard of wine around as if it were a banner. “My father,” he sneered, “has not the stamina I possess. He hides behind the woman who is his whore-wife – the bitch who takes his cousin to her bed. Why? Because, so I have heard, he prefers the company of his men!” They all jeered, the entire Hall mocking and contemptuous, ridiculing the Pendragon. “I have reason to believe,” Cerdic shouted, regaining attention, “I am the only true son born from him. My mother was a virtuous woman, a noble, wise lady.”
Aye, Medraut thought to himself, was that why you so brutally killed her?
“The others, they were not of his seed – and neither are you!”
Appalled at the sudden thrust of venom, Medraut dodged, as Cerdic threw the tankard at him. It caught his shoulder, tumbled to the floor. “Are you then,” Cerdic screamed, “an impostor? Eating at my table, begging warmth from my fire under the pretence of being a brother?”
“No, Lord!” Medraut countered hurriedly, “I come to fight with you against the man who treated me with as much wrong as he did you!”
“Fight? You, a snivelling boy, fight?” Cerdic put his fists to his waist, threw back his head and howled derision, the Hall echoing his mockery.
“I am three and twenty!” Medraut protested hotly, this insult one too many. “Older than the boy who calls himself your son!”
The skin on Cerdic’s face became blotched, patched red and white, the loose jowls beneath his chin quivering. “How dare you!” He swung around from behind the table, striding the distance between himself and Medraut, took him up by the collar as if he were a recalcitrant pup and shook him. Almost, Medraut’s teeth and bones rattled.
As if he were something unpleasant, Cerdic abruptly dropped him. Medraut crumpled to the floor, winded, more than a little frightened. What had he said, for God’s sake? He had only meant he was of an age more fitting to fight than Cynric. To his relief, there came no blows or kicks. Instead, Cerdic hauled him upright, held him painfully by the throat, his fingers squeezing and bruising his windpipe. Medraut, choking, gasping for air, tried to pluck at Cerdic’s grip.
“Do I want your poxed presence tainting the glory of my proud men?” Cerdic was shouting, his eyes pig small, cheeks puffed. “How do I know the stench of a traitor does not cling to your foul breath? You? A snivelling whoreson against that bastard my father? Ah no, you will not fight with us come the next waning moon, you are not worthy to be among those who call themselves Cerdicingas!” Cerdic let go, pushing Medraut into the arms of a man standing close by. “Get him from my sight!” Cerdic roared, his wrath suffused with contempt. “Throw him to the sea, let the Mer people feed on his miserable guts!”
Medraut could not protest, make an attempted plea for forgiveness for his throat was aching, tight, as he tried to swallow. The pain became almost unbearable – but anyway, did he want clemency?
Rough hands took him by the collar, the shoulder, the elbow, dragged him from the Hall, accompanied by ribald, drunken laughter, the finger of disdain and derision at his fall from grace, pointing firmly and unforgiving. Across the night-dark courtyard lit with the flare of smoking braziers and torches, they took him. Loud voices hailing for the small water-gate to be opened. They marched him through, manhandled him along the echoing wooden walkway of the wharves, and tossed him over the edge into the black coldness of the sea.
Cynric was the only one to remain seated at the high table. He watched his father’s torrent of rage, knowing it to be unjustified, felt regret at Medraut’s humiliation. Such was not the way to treat a man who had come to offer his sword. Even if the offering was riddled with suspicious patterning. Cynric would have won Medraut over, would have showered him with gifts and good feeling, made him one with the family. How much more that would have hurt the Pendragon – the knowing another son had full and whole-hearted turned against you?
But too many men pledged loyalty to Cerdic through the colours of fear. Fear of his anger, fear of being left with nothing after the day of fighting finally came. His father was too demanding, too harsh. Regrettable, but many a man would not miss his going when the Reaper of Death came for him. For all that, all those in this Hall would be with him when the battle came, with him to the death. That was the way of the Saxon.
He would miss Medraut. They had held some good conversations together, discussing the differences of religion and culture between Briton and Englishman. Had talked of Arthur, the Pendragon. Cynric would have liked to have met him, his grandsire, under better circumstances: under conditions other than those of hostility, for although he would never dare breathe word to his father, Cynric admired Arthur. A good leader, an excellent military strategist, and – even Medraut had admitted this – with exception of the one son, Cerdic, a good father.
With the exception of Cerdic? If he, Cynric, was to examine his heart for the truth, he would find the admission that he intensely disliked his own father. And if so, then why could a father not dislike a son?
May 489
XLVII
The coldness brought Medraut to his senses although the pain in his throat caught alight with the rush of salt-water entering his mouth and nose. He could swim, but
the weight of his boots dragged his legs and the leather of his tunic hampered movement. The tide was on the ebb, with the current already strengthening. He would need to grab hold of some solid object soon, or be swept out into the eddies of the channel. He forced his arms into a few pathetic strokes, groping blindly. Everything was dark, the blackness of a moonless, heavily clouded night. Rain was falling, a soft drizzle.
As each wave lifted and tossed him, he could hear the voice of the wind and a soporific, swishing, rhythmic sound; dull, repeated, distant. It seemed a while that he had been in the water, was probably only a few minutes. Once, to his left, he saw the darker shapes of the wharves and moored ships; beyond those would be the Hall, people. The current pulled him further away, outward along the open desertion of the coast.
Something bumped against his shoulders, something hard and unforgiving. He cried out. What now? Had they come to hit him? To finish him off? He thrust out with his arm, knocked against a cask, bobbing on the tide. His breath sobbing, Medraut pulled it to him, leant his arms and chest over it, the effort of heaving himself partially out of the water draining the last particle of strength. His vision swayed, the roar of the sea increased in his ears and a blackness darker than the night leered into his numbing mind and body. If it were not for that empty, floating cask, he would have drowned, would have sunk into the oblivion of the sea.
For what seemed a long while he drifted there, aimless, carried by the disinterested tidal pull. Dark, so dark, with no light, no sound, save for the constant movement of the sea and the rhythmic pulse somewhere, way ahead. Had there been the bathing light of the moon he might have been able to see how far he had drifted, whether it was worth trying to swim, to save himself. But there was nothing, only darkness. And why would he care to live? What was there to live for? Better to close his eyes, let the sea have him.
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