Patricius was a gifted orator, a man respected, if not liked. He rolled his small piece of parchment, stowed it again within the folds of his robe, then pausing for effect lifted his hands in prayer to intone: “Oh Lord our God, they have burned with fire your sanctuary on the ground; they have polluted the dwelling place of your name!” He turned suddenly and strode towards Arthur, hand outstretched, bejewelled finger pointing. “It must stop, this wanton giving away of British land. You must be stopped.”
Arthur’s eyebrow lifted a little higher. He shifted position but made no answer as the Archbishop swept forward to stand three strides before him. One or two councillors were on their feet, echoing his last words.
“We will have no more of it!” The Archbishop’s cry clawed up into the vaulted roof, rattled among the worn, stone supports. “Too late now to save land given to the wicked demons who have raped and tortured, too late to save those British souls condemned into slavery and a life without God’s light. Too late to…”
Unable to sit quiet any longer Arthur protested, “Your precious southern land is not under threat.” He swung his legs down, leant forward. “On the contrary, these agreed borders ensure the protection of your massed wealth, of your holy churches and rich estates.” Arthur smiled; a wry smile that held no warmth or amusement. “While I am King you are well enough protected. Although I cannot guarantee the lasting of these treaties after my death or,” he paused, looked along the rows of glowering men, “departure.” He gazed a long moment at the Archbishop, then came slowly to his feet, unfolding himself from the hard, cramped chair.
The Pendragon wore cavalry dress of leather and light mail over a white linen tunic. Across his shoulders, a scarlet-red cloak fastened by a silver and ruby cloak pin, its crafted head the size of a man’s clenched fist. White and red, the colours of the Artoriani. Resting at his throat the royal torque. It had been his father’s once, this gold, jewel-eyed, coiled dragon. The tyrant Vortigern had personally lifted it from the bloodied, hacked neck of Uthr’s severed head. Some small, pleasurable revenge had come to Arthur the day he retrieved the thing from Vortigern’s treasury.
He was a tall man, Arthur, his body muscular and lithe; with his prominent nose and keen, penetrating eyes he gave the impression of a stalking lion. Determination mixed with stubbornness. He pushed past the Archbishop, walked the length of the council chamber, surveying each man with his unnerving gaze. At the far end, he turned, leant against the wall and folded his arms.
“I have given away nothing. I permit the English to live on our land for harsh and exacting payment. Taxes, I might add, that balance the amount I would need ask from you were I not collecting it elsewhere. Nor have I abandoned anyone into Saex slavery. All had equal chance to leave when the treaties were agreed. The farmers elected to stay – as freeborn beneath the Saex. Farmers, I have found, take small heed to who are their overlords, they tend to stay loyal to their fields, orchards, flocks and herds.” His wry smile appeared again. “The Church fled Durovernum, as I recall, hitched their cassocks and ran, bleating and mewling for safety.” He laughed, pushed himself from the wall and strode back up the aisle. “So much for faith and trust in the Lord.” He reached the Archbishop. “So much for spreading the word of God to those who have not yet embraced Him!”
Patricius blustered a moment before blurting out, “Are you suggesting we should soil our robes by preaching the Blessed Word to those, those…”
Arthur finished for him, “Pagans?” As he brushed past, heading for his seat, he paused, said wickedly in Patricius’s ear, “Yet you try often enough with me, Archbishop.” He leapt up the two steps, sat, added, “But then, you are not keen on soiling your hands on me either, are you?” Several men, Arthur’s supporters, laughed. Others growled and grumbled.
That flutter of tension created by the Archbishop had eased, defused by Arthur’s humour. Patricius needed to create credence again, to master the upper hand. He did not fear Arthur, for Patricius was a man who saw only his own path of ambition. “We,” he spread his hand towards the Council, “will have an end. No more land to be given casually to the Saex.” Arthur sighed, held his tongue. “No more petty lords taking up these preposterous titles.”
Enniaun rose, signalled the need to speak.
“We take our independent titles, my Lord Archbishop, because were it left to Council, our swords would become rusty, our shields cracked and our spears blunted. Some of us need to defend our lands against the heathen – we do so unhampered by the humming and hawing of a Council that is only interested in the welfare of the south.”
Several men applauded – northern men. Ceredig added, “Arthur sees that we have free rein to defend our own, while giving us the extra security of knowing his men will come to our aid if asked.”
“Will you so aid us, Archbishop, the next time the Scotti raiders from Hibernia take sail and invade my Gwynedd coasts?” Enniaun asked.
“I cannot, will not, say aye to your suggestion, Archbishop.” Arthur spoke pleasantly, mildly, pronouncing the words clear and precise in Latin, as if he were patiently explaining some peculiarity of life to a small, unintelligent boy. “The northern lords have the right to take what title they wish, providing they pay homage unquestioned to me. The northern lords, Archbishop, have need to keep their weapons burnished, their spears sharp.”
Someone from the far end maliciously called, “Even Lot?” Several men guffawed.
Arthur glowered, snapped a response. “Aye, even Lot!” To Patricius he growled, “The first request I agree to. No more land for the English.”
The Archbishop bowed, returned with measured dignity to his seat. Councillors were nodding, a few applauding, most smiling. They had achieved part victory.
Patricius made himself comfortable, folding and patting his heavy clerical robes into place. He twiddled the garnet of his curial ring, appeared intent on its dazzle, said as if it were no important matter, a mere, informal, addition, “Vortigern dispensed with the four Roman administrative divisions of Britain. We have made decision to restore them, in an altered form of two divisions.” He folded his hands on his lap, looked up, along the row at Arthur. “Britannia Secunda, the south, will be ours to hold. The north, Britannia Prima, save for Eboracum and Lindum, is yours to do with as you will.” Magnanimously, he added. “You may of course retain your own lands of Dumnonia and the Summer Land; they will not be part of our administrative area.”
Arthur resisted the urge to come to his feet, to join those angered tribal lords in their immediate, loud response of rage. His first reaction was red anger, the second, raw indignation. The third, stone-hard hatred. They had thought this thing through then, the ringleaders, thought it through and made a decision. We, Patricius had said. Who were “we”?
The outrage from the northern lords was thunderous. All men were on their feet, bunching around the Archbishop, his supporters shouting the objections down. Enniaun, Lord of Gwynedd voiced the loudest outraged protest. “Britain cannot be thus divided. Such an act will weaken our borders tenfold. The Saex, the Picti, raiders from Hibernia, will be all the stronger if we tear our own strengths apart – even Vortigern saw that! Under the Pendragon we are firmly united in our defence, for it is him and his Artoriani and our unity that our enemies fear.”
Agreeing, a group detached themselves, marched towards Arthur in appeal, Ceredig among them, demanding the Archbishop’s immediate retraction. Arthur sat forward, his elbow resting on the chair arm, his face stone, inwardly seething. Above the uproar he bellowed, “And just who, Archbishop, is to be your principal governor?”
One man had remained seated, impassive to the running emotion. The voices were calming, each man looking at the other, whispering, questioning, “Who?”
Emrys rose to his feet, heads turning as he moved through the crush of men, stepping around Enniaun, moving past the Archbishop, walking along the aisle, walking towards the King’s dais. A tall, stately-looking man. Emrys ap Constantine, a dignified, proud m
an, one of the few who retained the right of wearing the purple-edged toga. Uncle Emrys, always so serious, youngest brother to Uthr Pendragon; Emrys, a true, unflinching Roman. One of the most powerful civilians in authority below Arthur. Who could, if circumstance dictated, and the army consented, make valid claim for supreme king. Except Emrys passionately believed in the Empire, and for him the title was not legal. Was not Roman.
Into the hushed silence he announced simply, without need to raise his voice, “I am.”
There must have been only a chosen few aware of the decision, for there came too many gasps, too many astonished faces into the heartbeat pause that followed. Only the prime influential men stayed smug, satisfied.
Arthur was shaken. It was cool in this high, slightly damp, stone clad room, but he felt sweat slither down his back and armpits. Those great, high arches seemed to be closing in, pressing forward; the room was cloying, choking. A childhood thing, this fear of enclosed spaces. His throat was dry, his skin clammy, but he mastered the swirling sensations, controlled the feelings of nausea and panic. His voice steady, Arthur said “As Comes Britanniarum? Or do you intend for the higher title of Dux?” Tagged on sarcastically, “You cannot, of course use the title King.”
Emrys either missed or chose to ignore the dry humour. “I am not challenging your personal preference, nephew, nor am I challenging your right to rule your own lands. All I take is Britannia Secunda.”
Someone else, a noted landowner from the wealthy area around Aquae Sulis, called in a derisive voice, “The lands your friends, the Saex, leave you, anyway!”
Arthur barely heard the remark. The sound of rushing water was gushing in his ears, the room spinning in a whirlpool of dizzying confusion and fear. He must master this! Must not appear beyond control! With effort he signalled for a slave to bring him wine, took the goblet and sipped slowly, directing his full attention to the tall, austere man standing a few yards before him. This Roman traitor to the Pendragon name.
The wine was watered, but strong enough to chase away the unsteadiness, for Arthur to take a breath and fight it full off. The brief crisis of panic was subsiding. He took a last sip of wine, gave the goblet back to the slave, stretched, clasping his hands behind his neck. His fingers rested a moment on the great dragon-head shape of his torque, felt its smooth reassurance of power that was his. He stood, stepped from the dais. Abreast of Emrys, he stopped, regarded the man eye to eye. They were of similar height and build, though Arthur was the more muscular.
For a long while, Arthur stood there holding his uncle’s gaze, no sign of his rapidly calculating thoughts reaching his bland expression, then, with decision made, he nodded once, a minimal movement.
“Then it is yours, Uncle, aside from the path of the Ridge Way. That will remain mine to use as and when I need. Your boundaries shall be within a triangle between Calleva, Aquae Sulis and the Hafren.”
Emrys answered, unmoved by the chill in his nephew’s tone, “A square, Pendragon, north and west as you say, but to the east I shall have from Venta Bulgarium.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched, his hawk-brown eyes darkened, his nails drove into the palm of his right hand, mastering the urge to lose his temper, ram his fist into this whoreson’s teeth. His father’s brother had, until this moment, been nothing more than a nagging irritant, a slight disappointment; but the rules were of a sudden changed. Emrys had become a serious threat. The opposition. An enemy.
“Venta. Why Venta?” Arthur spoke with quiet menace.
For answer Emrys spread his hands, smiled. “Why not?”
The Archbishop Patricius had joined Emrys, men falling back as the three stood, squaring up to each other, defiance and anger rippling between them like flickering lightning. “I am taking up residence within Venta’s new-built Holy House,” he said.
Arthur’s gaze went from the Archbishop to his uncle, back to this pompous man of God. They were in this together then, the three of them, Patricius, Emrys, and Winifred. He forced a casual laugh; not for all his blood would he let them see how this had unnerved him. “Venta, where the bitch I once bedded as wife reigns as the whore queen she is.” Casually he waved his hand, a dismissive gesture. “Have it. Have her.”
The Archbishop protested, stepping nearer to Arthur, becoming angered. “My Lady is a good, holy woman. Your true wife, and mother of your only legitimate son… ”
Arthur sprang across the small gap between them, his hand coming out as fast as a snake’s bite to grasp the Archbishop by the throat. Into his face he hissed, “I know what my ex-wife is. A scheming bitch who will try anything to put her son in place of my first-born, Llacheu.” The Archbishop’s hands were clawing at Arthur’s, his throat gurgling and choking, face reddening. Emrys’s hands came up, began to pull at the Pendragon, Enniaun, on the far side persuading him to let the clergyman go. Arthur heard neither, but released the man anyway, swinging round to snarl, “Remember this, Uncle. Winifred is a Saex whore and the daughter of a bastard tyrant.”
He walked the length of the room, flung the door wide, turned to salute Council. “Remember this when she demands more than jurisdiction over that poxed little town.”
He swung around on his heel, left, as the last glow of evening sunshine streaked in patterns of red and gold across the grimed and cracked marble floor. From outside a thrush sang its evening chorus. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and rain. Far in the distance, thunder rumbled.
December 460
XVI
Lot enjoyed playing with his daughter, a bonny little bairn with dimpled cheeks and twinkling-bright eyes. She was dark of skin, hair and eye, different from his own fair colouring – and Morgause’s sun-gold hair and pale, smooth skin. It was like that with some children, Morgause had said, they take after the grandsire. Her father, she told him, had hair as black as night and skin as brown as a nutshell. Lot had no way of knowing his wife held no qualms about blatant lies.
Dancing his daughter on his knee the proud father gurgled and chuckled with her; she was growing so fast! The smell of roasting meat wafted through from the Hall. Lot looked up as the child’s wet-nurse entered. He sighed, time for Gathering, and time for his dear-heart to suckle for her milk and be settled for the night.
He stood, and giving the babe a last hug, passed her to the waiting woman. She smelt deliciously of mother’s milk and babies, a warm, comforting smell. Morgause would never smell of children. She had not even allowed the child to suckle her first milk, it would ruin the shape of her breasts, she said. Lot supposed she was right. In everything else she was. Even that she was to bear a girl-child. Again Lot sighed, more pronouncedly. He had so wanted a son. Guilt at this thought meaning he did not love his daughter plunged into him; feverishly he kissed the lass’s head, watched proudly as she guzzled the woman’s milk. Fine, large breasts. Milk-swollen and round.
Hurriedly, embarrassed, Lot swung from the room to welcome the men of his guard and people of the settlement whose turn it was to dine in his Hall. He wanted a woman, wanted Morgause! But she was away, up at the Picti settlement on the banks of the Tava, sealing the agreement of marriage between their young daughter and the son of Drust with Ebba’s Council.
“Come back before the snows fall, my beloved!” Lot had pleaded and Morgause had smiled and kissed him goodbye, promised she would. But she had not returned, and now the snow lay thick with more to fall. She would not be home before the thaw. Which could be weeks away yet.
Morgause curled, contented and warm in Ebba’s arms before the hearth-fire, wrapped in wolf-skins, lying naked on a thick bearskin rug. Ebba was so good at lovemaking. Almost as good as the only other man who had been worth bedding: Uthr Pendragon; ah now he had been a man! Not the sniveling whelk Lot had turned out to be. Why in the Mother’s name had she saddled herself with him?
Ebba moved in his sleep, nuzzling closer into the softness of her breasts. Why? Because marriage to Lot had been convenient and had, at the time, offered the greatest potential. No matte
r that he was as useless as a broken spear shaft in bed. There were others who could fill her needs.
There were no lamps lit, and beyond the firm-shut door the wind howled like a hungry wolf pack. It was probably snowing again. Let it! Let it snow and snow! She could not leave here until the thaw and she did not want to leave, not yet.
When she did, it would be to begin the slow spreading of the word of a war hosting. Not yet, happen not until a summer and a winter had passed, but the men would gather, men of Lot’s northern British and Ebba’s eastern Picti. If they were lucky, the other tribes of the Picti would join them also – and then they would head south, down across the Wall. And meet with Arthur and his damned Artoriani and wipe them – him – from the world.
She lay, watching the movement of the flames while Ebba slept. Witch-woman many called her, a title she fostered for it brought fear into the hearts of those who served her, and fear brought loyalty. None would disobey Morgause. Not Lot, for the imbecile loved her and feared to lose her; not Ebba, for he wanted her as his own and feared he might not get her, but that was a different fear. The peasants and farmers feared her for her knowledge and her power… even the King, Arthur, feared her. Hah, although he tried to hide it!
Her smile was lazy, smug. Witch-woman? It took little to make simple people believe in the nonsense of magic. A knowledge of healing herbs – aye and their destructive uses; knowing how to write in a neat, straight hand, how to read without moving your lips or speaking the words aloud; how to recognise the signs of the weather; knowing how a man thought by the movement of his eyes and hands. How to ensure you conceived no baby, or to change a boy into a girl! She laughed quietly to herself. Easily done. All it had needed was two cups of poisoned wine, a purse of gold and a day later, a side of pork as poisoned as the wine. The wine had been for the birthing women. They died quickly, quietly, no fuss, no suspicion. The pork? Meat was so often contaminated. She had lingered, the mother of the girl Lot thought to be his own, but even if she had talked, she had not known of who had wanted her daughter, or why.
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