Men were laughing, moving aside to retrieve their gaming pieces or pour more mead, the incident forgotten.
One hand still to his nose, Eadric extended the other to Llacheu, his grin broad behind the shielding fingers. He was impressed; said simply, “Pax?”
Llacheu hesitated. “If it be pax with Oswin also?”
Eadric exchanged glances with his young brother, who rubbed at the soreness of his pulled hair. “If you’ve been teaching him to fight so rough, then ja, pax it had better be.”
Llacheu grinned, a smile as broad as a full moon, lifted his fingers to touch his eye. “We’d best go find our mothers. Ask them to patch us up, I suppose.”
The blood still dripping from his nose, Eadric reluctantly agreed. In single file they trooped through the Hall, made way past the chuckling men to the women’s place. They felt no shame – after all, it was for the women to tend a warrior’s brave-gotten wounds.
Later, when the trader had packed away his wares and the women had all dispersed to their own hearth places, Gwenhwyfar herself settled Llacheu into his bed, leaving Enid to tend Gwydre and Amr. The fighting had frightened her more than she cared to admit, coming perhaps too close to the reminder of Winifred and her son’s existence.
“You must not make enemies, Llacheu.” She stroked his hair away from his eyes, that same irritating flop across the forehead that Arthur had also. “You will find enough need to fight without making cause of your own.”
Llacheu chewed his lip. He knew his mam did not like fighting, knew she hated his da going away. And there was something more that troubled her, though he did not know what it was.
“I have not made an enemy of Eadric though, have I? It ended with us being friends.”
Gwenhwyfar smiled, tucked the sleeping-fur tighter around him. “This time aye, but another time, such tactics may not reap a beneficial reward.” She blew out the lamp, made for her own bed.
She undressed slowly, carefully folding each garment as she took them off. The lady at Venta wishes you and your sons all health! Winifred would never send such a greeting, not in innocent friendship. What scheming was she plotting now? Or was this just a chance to stab a reminder of her presence?
Gwenhwyfar scuttled into her bed for it was cold this evening, the heat of summer not yet upon them. She smiled to herself as she wriggled beneath the furs. So, Winifred was not quite the shriven woman of God that she took such public care to make herself out to be! Other confessed holy women, Gwenhwyfar knew, wore hair tunics beneath their outer robes or wrapped themselves tight in swaddling bands to hide their breasts from God’s disapproving sight. Not Winifred. Fine silk for under-garments and nightwear? Hah! Then the tears came through the insincere amusement. Winifred and her son. Llacheu was not more than four and one half years and, from them, he had death hanging over his head. Winifred would never allow Llacheu to take place above her own Cerdic, not without a fight.
If Arthur were here he would have chided her worrying, but he was not, and for all the happy ease that Winta’s settlement created on the surface, beneath the every-day facade Gwenhwyfar wanted, so desperately wanted, a place, a home, of their own. A place where they could be happy and together. Where she, and her sons, could be safe from Winifred’s poisoned darts.
X
Arthur disliked Aquae Sulis a fraction more than Lindum Colonia. Gwenhwyfar detested the place, which is why he had left her and the boys with Winta. Compared with Lindum and Eboracum in the north, Sulis was a flourishing and thriving town. Trade fluctuated with the seasons, as it always had, and the buildings were in need of repair, but not to the extent of those towns on the eastern side of the country. Their decay had always been blamed on the disruption caused by the Saex and now Arthur was being blamed for Aquae Sulis’s grey cloak of dejection. For Mithras sake! How was it his fault the cobbles near the old Minerva Bath House were sinking only one year after they had been laid?
They complained of this and that, these citizens of Sulis – or Lindum or Eboracum – the moans and grumbles were the same wherever he went. Whined that the quality of goods was not as it had been, corn was overpriced, skilled labour difficult to come by, the roads were full of potholes, defence walls zigzagged with gaping cracks. What was it they wanted from him? Peace? Prosperity? He was riding his backside raw trying for that, yet still they bellyached!
With the steady drizzle of rain that had lasted for three days now and darkness falling, people had gone early to their homes; the shopkeepers were beginning to put up their shutters for the night. Arthur walked alone, his cloak hunched around his shoulders, head ducked against the rain. By the Bull, even the weather was bloody miserable in this town! Lamplight from a corner tavern spilt onto the rain-gleaming cobbles. Arthur glanced in as he passed; he would not say no to a drink. For a moment he was tempted, scrunched his cloak tighter and walked on. He was late already and Emrys would be in enough of a sour mood. Damn it! What would another half hour late matter?
He ordered wine from the surly-looking bartender, smiled at the girl cleaning the day’s used tankards and dishes in the alcove to one side of the bar and sat at one of the four tables, his back to the three men seated at another. They had fallen silent as he entered, glowering at him with the natural suspicion of regular customers regarding a stranger. The man brought a terracotta flask shaped like a fox and a pewter tankard, set them down with a thud that sloshed a drip of red wine from the spout, the fox’s open mouth. Amicably, Arthur thanked him, tossed a small battered bronze coin. Coins were becoming rare too. Also his fault apparently, although coinage had been rapidly declining since before his birth – Vortigern too had been hard pressed to keep an adequate number in circulation. Aye, he would like to have a strong enough economy to mint new coins; he would like to do many things. He sipped the wine, poor quality, but he had tasted worse, and contemplated some of those things. Mostly things he could envisage doing to those pompous asses of his Council.
Hierarchical worthies of the Church and towns and estates of Britain. Older, wiser men – or so they informed him – established politicians, who saw themselves as self-appointed guardians of public morality, law and order. Their way was the only way, they knew better and no four-and-twenty- year-old, whoever his father had been and however talented on a battlefield, was going to tread on their toes or change the order of things. Except, Arthur thought differently: he had his path laid firm and was going to follow it, Council or no Council. The meeting had gone badly this afternoon, ending with several of the older men walking out and leaving Arthur in a blazing temper. He poured more wine. He had no liking for this additional summons to see Emrys. Uncle he might be, but to dictate to the King? Arthur sighed and drank the wine. That was it with family of course; the law of order changed dramatically where relations were concerned. He would meet with Emrys, if only to tell him where he and the Council could shove their bureaucratic ideas.
The girl had come out to wipe down the tables. She was a young thing, ten and five, six? A slave undoubtedly; she had the appearance of a captured bird, thin cheeks, eyes that saw far away, probably to the northern hills, for she had the look of the north about her.
Idly, Arthur read the scratchings on the plaster wall in front of him, an exchanged feud of words. “Priscus loves Julia Claudia but she says he is as useful as a worn lavatory sponge.” Arthur chuckled at the indignant response. “Cadwallon is jealous because I am better looking, know how to do it and have better equipment to do it with!”
The other men, well into their ale, had forgotten his presence, had not realised who he was beyond a cavalry officer. It took several sentences before Arthur realised they were talking of Winifred, his ex-wife.
“Are you going to Venta then?”
“Aye, she’s offering good gold for skilled carpenters. Lashing out a fortune on this church and monastery she’s having built.”
“Aye well, she’s currying favour with the Church ain’t she? Getting her feet well under the table.”
Arthur stole a glance over his shoulder. The smallest of the three, a stocky little man with a drooping moustache and scarred face, was leaning back, tapping the side of his nose. “And we all know why, of course.”
The others leant forward, expressions questioning. The Moustache paused for effect, took a swig of ale. “She wants her son recognised as the Pendragon’s heir. She’s already hand-in-glove with Emrys Ambrosius you know.”
Another of the men chuckled, “They say as how she wants him in her bed.” There was derisive laughter, jeers. “Na ‘tis true, I heard it from Lord Emrys’s men only yesterday. They were here, in this very tavern!” He smacked the wooden table with his palm, causing the flagon and tankards to jump.
The girl smiled shyly at Arthur as she began cleaning his table. He lifted the wine flask for her. Pretty eyes. Dark blue. “We’re closing soon, Sir.” Unmistakably from the north.
“You want to keep your ears open, Mab, if you’re going along to Venta. She pays highly for gossip of the Pendragon.”
The third man, a burly type with only one eye and full of drink, caught hold of the slave girl as she passed. She struggled, pushing at him with her hands. “Aye, the pair of them, her and Emrys, keep sharp eyes on our King, waitin’ their chance to hack off his essentials and take the royal torque for their own.” He attempted to kiss the girl.
Their shadows leapt along the wall, she trying to fend off the man as he fumbled beneath her bodice, the other two cheering him on. Sobbing, she begged him to let her go, raising more laughter. He had her breast exposed now, was moving lower with his other hand to lift her skirt.
“Is this tavern licensed as a whore-house then?”
The three men seated at their table turned to look at Arthur. The one with his hand half way up the girl’s leg snorted. “Happen not, but this one’s fair game I’d wager.”
Arthur had taken intense dislike to the three of them, the one with the moustache in particular. “I thought it was supposed to be the Saex who were the bastards who raped British women.” He set down his tankard, slid one leg over the bench, sat half facing the men, one eye half closed, the other eyebrow slightly raised. His hand rested, casually, on the pommel of his sword. “I suggest you let her go.”
The man held his grin, but the voice was harsh, threatening. “And I suggest you shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.” He thrust his hand higher up the girl’s thigh, and Arthur was standing, his sword out and at the man’s throat.
“Let her go.” It crossed Arthur’s mind, as he stood there with the tip of his sword pricking a trickle of bright blood along the man’s craggy-skinned throat, that he was behaving absurdly. The girl worked in a tavern, what was she to expect? Except she was a slave, had no choice in the matter, and somehow, after all that bellyaching and demanding from his Council, freedom of choice seemed suddenly very important. “Let her go.”
Arthur was aware of the other two men reaching for their daggers, and a disturbance at the open doorway; the tramp of feet, the smell and sound of men, the chink of armour and the grate of a sword as it was drawn from its scabbard. The Pendragon stood his ground, his sword pressing upon Moustache’s windpipe, he would kill this one first, then tend to these newcomers behind him.
But he did not have to. “Officers of the Watch! Put up your weapon!”
Lazily, the sword not moving, Arthur turned his cool, piercing eyes to the nearest officer in the doorway. Calmly, he ordered, “Arrest this man and have him flogged for insulting and threatening behaviour.”
The officer leered. “And who may you be to give me orders, eh?” He raised his own sword – and Arthur’s blade whistled, sliced through his cheek. The second officer gasped, plunged forward, shoving his bleeding comrade aside. “Jesu Christ, it’s the Pendragon!”
Even the man with the moustache became immobile, mouth gaping like a landed fish. Arthur bent down, picked up the rag that the girl had been using for cleaning the tables and wiped his sword blade of blood before sheathing the weapon. He drained his wine, took the girl’s arm and started to leave the tavern.
Almost as an afterthought he turned back, said with a malicious smile, “When you see her, tell Lady Winifred of this. She’ll be interested to hear of my northern slave.” He nodded to the two watch officers, flipped three coins to the barman, hovering behind them.
“For the girl. She’s mine now.” And left.
June 460
XI
Arthur had gone north, essentially to see to Lot and his wife, Morgause, and also to buy horses. Those he had purchased he sent south to begin their training.
Straightening from feeling the colt’s forelegs for signs of lameness, Gwenhwyfar retained her impassive expression. Horse traders were known for their hard bargaining and dishonesty. These colts were poor, half starved, pathetic creatures. Except for this bay -- he had breeding in him beneath the matted coat and staring ribs. Gwenhwyfar chewed her lip, shook her head as she walked around the animal, her expression critical. “They’ll need feeding up before they’re of any use to the Artoriani.”
“It’s a long way down from beyond the Wall, Lady. Horses lose weight on a long trek.” The trader spread his hands, rolled his eyes slightly, stating the obvious.
Gwenhwyfar ran her hand along from the bay’s withers to his rump. Weight loss would occur with an excessive, persistent pace, but not to this extent. These horses had been pushed hard and ill kept long before being brought south to Winta Ingas Ham.
“Been backed has he, this one?” she asked.
Patiently, the trader spread his arms wider. “He’s only two! Of course not.”
Gwenhwyfar had heard enough. Who did this imbecile think he was? When Arthur bought horses he purchased healthy, worthwhile stock, not creatures such as this mangy bunch fit only for sausage-meat.
“You,” she said, coming around the colt and poking the man hard in the chest, “are a cheat and a liar.” She shoved him again, thrusting him backwards two paces. “These are not the horses the Pendragon would have seen.” She raised her hand to stop the contradictory protest. “My husband buys and breeds the best.” She thrust her face closer to the man’s. “These are most certainly not the best.”
A crowd of English onlookers had gathered to watch and offer advice on the horses, the children of the settlement worming their way to the front. Llacheu beamed pride as his mother effectively put this northern scum in his place.
“There is one good horse among thirty decrepit nags. One. Not backed? Has carried no rider or saddle?” Gwenhwyfar gripped hold of the startled man’s arm, dragged him forward and pointed to the white patches of hair on the bay’s withers and back. “Saddle sores! How can a two-year-old be riddled with saddle sores if he has not been backed?”
Angrily she pushed the man from her, deliberately hard. “Go back to the northern whore who spawned you, these are not the horses my husband asked to be brought south.” She drew her dagger. “Cheat the King would you? You dog-turd, get from my sight!”
The man backed away, slipped on the wet, muddied grass of the river bank scrabbled for footing and fell, tumbling into the water. Plunging after him, Gwenhwyfar caught hold of his neckband. “Get on your own horse, now, and ride away before I slit your throat for the cheat you are.” She gripped tighter, thrust him up the bank where several of the English, laughing their approval, caught his arms, unceremoniously helped him to his horse and began to lead it across the fording place that was only accessible during low tide.
“Cheat is it?” he yelled, squirming around to raise his fist at the woman standing, arms folded on the bank behind him. “What of my other horses? Send them with me or pay me for them.”
“I would wager someone has already paid you a high price for the horses you were supposed to have brought.”
“Damn you, woman! This is an insult!”
Winta had come from his Hall, interested at the rise of laughter and jeering, had caught the last heated exchange. He strode to the edge of the for
d. “Insult is it?” he roared. “And what of the insult to my Lady Pendragon and to the King? Be off with you. Regard the fact that you still have your head and balls as adequate payment!”
Along the bank, a younger man dressed as the horse trader in the same style of woollen bracae and tunic, hurriedly kissed the girl he was with goodbye, and ran for his horse. Scrabbling into the saddle, he kicked the mare to a canter, urging her into the mud-coloured water, raced to catch up with his father.
Gwenhwyfar regarded the girl he had been talking to. Nessa, the slave Arthur had brought from Aquae Sulis. She patted the bay colt thoughtfully. Fed with corn, handled gently and given the chance of a long summer’s rest the horse’s vitality and sleekness would return. Some of the others would pull through too, but Arthur needed horses that could begin their training now. Good, well-bred horses able to take the pace needed of a war-horse.
“Turn these animals out to pasture,” Gwenhwyfar ordered, “we will give them a few days rest, then see which are worth the keeping.” She beckoned Nessa to her. Like the horses, the girl had been thin and neglected, lice-ridden and frightened. Good food and kindness paid well for humans also.
“Did you bed with her?” Gwenhwyfar had asked Arthur, that first night when he returned, still nursing his anger at Emrys and the Council. They were lying together after the sharing of love, and Gwenhwyfar had regretted the question for fear of being answered with a lie. Or the truth. “No,” he had said, and she had believed him. Almost.
“You seem to know the young man,” Gwenhwyfar said to Nessa. “Like them, you are from the north-west are you not?”
Nessa bobbed a reverence to her mistress. It had all been so different here, so calm and unhurried; people, even her mistress, treating her kindly. She was not for men to use as they pleased, nor to be dealt harsh words or blows.
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