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by Helen Hollick

  And that, Morgause thought to herself with a grim smile of calculation, will leave only Arthur to be dealt with.

  March 461

  XVII

  Winifred regarded her brother with a mixture of hatred and jealousy. Eight years old, arrived here only a few weeks past and already the darling of the monks. Even the Archbishop, coming from the far end of the cloister, thought Vitolinus to be a model noviciate. She forced a bright smile for Patricius, said as he approached, “My brother seems happy enough here at our holy place, I am glad.”

  “Greetings, my Lady,” the Archbishop puffed, slightly short of breath through hurrying. She had arrived unannounced, unexpected. As she had an irritating tendency to do. “You are well recovered from your slight illness?” He smiled pleasantly as Winifred nodded assent. “Good, good.” He looked across at the boy, sitting on the sun-warmed grass among a group of youngsters his own age, occupied with stylus and wax tablet, busy chattering, occasionally laughing. “Vitolinus has settled well, a most willing and eager young boy. I have high hopes for him; he has the potential of making a fine abbot.”

  Winifred began walking, turning her back on the boy, ambled in the direction from whence the Archbishop had just come. “Or an Archbishop?” she suggested.

  “Who knows?” Patricius answered. “Perhaps he will turn missionary and take the word of God to your Jute kin.”

  Winifred declined an answer, waited for the man to open the door into his rooms. This first was a small but practical chamber with stool, table, stone-flagged floor, a single brazier – unlit. A public room that reflected the plainness of religious life. The Archbishop escorted Winifred through another door, beyond which were his personal rooms, larger, more richly furnished, made more comfortable. Few were permitted the honour of entering here.

  Winifred seated herself on a couch, accepted the offer of wine. “I no longer associate with my mother’s barbarian kin, Archbishop, as you well know. Her father, Hengest, has been nothing to me these several years past. It was my wish for my young brother to come here, into a House of God to annul any lingering blood-taint of heathenism.”

  And to be able to keep close eye on him; and to be permanently rid of him, should the opportunity arise, she thought.

  The Archbishop inclined his head in apology, aware the Lady Winifred intended her brother to grow to manhood safely cloistered among a religious community. Safe, where he would pose no threat against her son. There was enough rivalry for the future between Cerdic and his half- brothers by that Gwynedd woman, without the added complications of Vitolinus’s prospects.

  He said, half to himself, “The Pendragon was not pleased, I understand, to learn that the Comes Britanniarum had transferred responsibility of the boy from his own care into ours.”

  Relaxing slightly, the flicker of hostility passing, Winifred replied, “My husband approves of nothing even remotely connected with his uncle, or with me, Archbishop. Had the Pendragon foreseen events he would never have given the lad into his uncle’s house in the first place – but then, at the time, they were not the enemies they now are.” She smiled, she so enjoyed Arthur’s mistakes. “Of course, were the King to have his way, I, my son and my brother would have been hanged by now. His uncle too.”

  Patricius was shocked by her matter-of-factness, she saw it in his face, said, “Arthur is a harsh man, a soldier living in a soldier’s world. There is no nicety about him.” She smiled to herself, remembering their years as man and wife, “Even in the bedroom the Pendragon could be brutal. I have the scars to prove it.” She waved any answer aside, added, deliberately shocking the Archbishop further, “For the most part, I enjoyed our intimacies that way.”

  She finished her wine, rose, smoothed the creases from her black gown. “Now, to business. How is the building of my new church coming along?”

  Relieved at the turn of conversation, the Archbishop stood also, and indicated with his hand they should leave the room. “Come, I will show you, it is all but completed. Your generous funding has enabled us to erect a fine place, more magnificent than any chapel yet built. I feel we may even be justified in giving it a grander title, for chapel or church is not enough. Cathedral would be more fitting.”

  Winifred walked before him, back out into the sunlight, pleased with herself. Her prolific cultivation of the Archbishop and alliance with Emrys was proving worthwhile. Expensive, but worthwhile. Cerdic would be king – or Comes Britanniarum, or whatever title he chose, after Arthur. The manner of the title mattered not, only the position, the power. She could not yet influence the army, but Council and the Church was another matter entirely. They had already achieved one victory over Arthur by claiming the wealthiest portion of Britain for their own. And, subtly directed by her innocently casual suggestions, they would soon consider laying claim to even more. Winifred glowed within herself – plotting Arthur’s downfall was so satisfying!

  Vitolinus was sitting on the grass in the centre of the quadrangle, surrounded by giggling boys. His looks were of their mother, nothing at all of Vortigern. Winifred had a sudden, distinct image of him as a baby, yowling in his mother’s arms as they struggled to survive the floodwaters of Caer Gloui. Arthur had come for them, the three of them, Winifred, the boy and their mother, Rowena; had come to make an end of them. But Fate had intervened, spilling the rain-swollen river Hafren over its banks, allowing their escape. Bloodied from Arthur’s own hand smashing into her face, shaken, scared, Winifred had run with her mother, dodging the falling walls, wading into the cold, swirling water, plunging, half swimming, through the pouring torrent to high ground; breath sobbing, skirts sodden, death running close as a shadow. Rowena had reached firm ground first, clambered to safety. Had turned to her daughter, struggling to follow and kicked her back into the muddied waters. When Winifred emerged, gasping, near-drowned, Rowena had gone, fled, with her son.

  Vitolinus glanced up, saw her watching, answered her haughty gaze with a returned stare of loathing. The Pendragon had taken him as hostage from Hengest as part of the agreed treaty for the Cantii lands. He hated his grandsire for that betrayal as much as he hated his sister. The one trading him for land, the other wanting him dead or safely out of the way. Well he could play their game, he could wait until he came to manhood. Then they would see what he, Vitolinus, had in mind for himself.

  He smoothed the wax on the tablet resting on his lap with the flat end of his stylus. Drew another obscene picture for the boys to crow over. This one was of the Archbishop eagerly copulating with his po-faced sister, Winifred, using her as if she were a bitch on heat.

  May 461

  XVIII

  Llacheu was fascinated by the ancient stones before him, and a little wary. He squatted, peered into the gloomy chamber formed beneath the giant capstone, hesitant to crawl under. What if there was a body beneath there? Or worse.

  A blackbird shrilled in the copse of trees away to the left. Hasta, Arthur’s stallion, was eating grass, the steady tear and chomp a reassuring, everyday sound. The horse snorted, raised his head to shake away the irritation of flies, the leather and metal of his harness jingling and shaking in the flurry of movement.

  The earth smelt warm and damp, a wholesome, pleasant smell of grass and earth and steaming stone. There had been heavy rain these last days, but today the sun was shining, radiating a promise of summer heat. The world was washed and refreshed, clean and new.

  Overhearing superstitious whispers about this old burial place, Llacheu had pestered to see it. At first glance, the stones seemed nothing more than a tumbled heap of flat rocks, but men from a time long past had laboured hard to bring them up onto these hills above the Gwy river.

  “There are no bones,” the boy announced, withdrawing his head from the deep shadows beneath the capstone, disappointed but relieved.

  Arthur laughed, and ruffling the boy’s hair, bent low to peer into the diffused light of what had once been a covered chamber, resting his arm on the two-hand-span thickness of the single slab whi
ch had formed the roof. “These stones were the framework, supports for the weight of earth forming a covering mound.”

  “Like the timber frame of a house?”

  “Aye. Any bones would have gone the same way as the earth and turves. Rain, wind and time have taken them.”

  “Why use stones? Why not timber?”

  Arthur straightened, began inspecting the construction. The one great flat capstone, longer than the height of a man, rested on uprights a few feet high. Surrounding banks of earth, grassed and covered with scattered wild flowers, were all that remained of what had been the outer walls of the burial chamber.

  He answered Llacheu’s question tentatively, thinking as he spoke. “Timber does not last, it rots and decays. Stone like this is strong and it takes a mighty force to destroy it. Certain – special stone – is sacred to some. The Old People erected circles of stone for their gods and burial places such as this. One day I’ll show you and your brothers the Great Henge. Tall, tall stones,” he indicated with his hands a height way above his head, “higher than a man on horseback. Each with a topped lintel stone, many believe it was built with the magic of the Druid kind.” Arthur added, “I was proclaimed Pendragon by your grandsire beside a sacred stone.”

  “Was that when you became King?”

  “Na, I was only a lad myself then, but the title of Pendragon gave me the right to become King. As my father had hoped to be.”

  “Uthr?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “Your Uncle, Emrys is his brother.”

  Again Arthur nodded, but said, “Ambrosius. We must call the wretched man by his adopted Roman name now. Ambrosius Aurelianus, not Emrys.”

  Llacheu was only half listening, was peering again beneath the great capstone. “It seems a curious thing to bury someone in this way. Far easier to dig a hole like we do.”

  “I don’t think they buried everyone like this. Someone of importance was lain to rest here. A king? Winta of the Humbrenses once told me that the high kings of his people are sometimes laid in a ship with their armour and weapons and food, then the whole thing is covered over into a great mound to be seen and remembered by all. Hard work aye, but is not such a man worth the effort? An easily dug hole in the ground is soon forgotten.”

  “The person buried here has been forgotten.”

  “The person, but not his burial place. Men still fear coming here after dark; still make the sign for protection as they pass. The belief and the people are forgotten – forgotten even long before the Caesars came, but enough remains to remind us that others have walked and loved, lived and died.” Arthur seated himself on the grass mound, picked a flower, began absent-mindedly shredding its petals. “Remember that flint arrowhead you found? And the stone axe head?”

  Llacheu nodded, they were treasures indeed. He felt for the pouch at his neck, unfastened it and tipped the contents into his palm, showed the arrowhead solemnly to his father. “I carry it with me always, as my luck charm.”

  Arthur took the thing from his son, examined it closely, said with straight expression, “You don’t haul the axe head around with you as well then?”

  Llacheu laughed. “It is in the bottom of my clothes chest! I made Mam swear never to touch it.”

  Overhead, a lark was singing, fit to burst his feathers. On and on went his song of joy, singing and singing – and then sudden quiet as he dropped down to his mate, nesting somewhere among the sun-warmed, wind-whispered grass. “I wonder if this was made by the same people who built the Henge?” Arthur mused. “I do not believe it was all fashioned by magic. It is my experience that mortal blood and sweat form a large part of hard labour.” He gave the charm back to his son, watched him slip it safely away.

  A fox trotted from the copse, disappeared among the low bushes to reappear further down the slope, heading at an easy lope down into the valley. Arthur watched him go, the chestnut red of his glossy summer coat against the brilliant green of new-grown grass. It was almost like being atop the world up here. Not as high as Gwenhwyfar’s mountains of Gwynedd, of course, but the stillness, the sense of being alone created the illusion. The only man – and boy – in the world. A sudden fancy, a sudden weird feeling of nothingness. They were already dead, he and Llacheu: spirits taking a last look at the sloping hills and the winding valley before passing into the other world, the world beyond this. Over there, way away, beyond that bank of darkening cloud, lay the sea and beyond that…

  “I think,” said Llacheu, breaking his father’s thoughts, “I would rather be beneath these stones than buried in the earth. It would not seem much different from going to sleep in a cave would it? The darkness of cold earth is a bit frightening.”

  Arthur drew his son to him, held him close. “Any death is frightening.”

  Llacheu looked up quickly into his father’s face. “Even to you?”

  “Even to me.” Death. This place stank of it.

  The sun had gone, evening clouds were rolling back to claim the sky. The air felt chill. “A lad your age need not worry about death. You have years of life stretching before you.” Arthur shivered. A spirit stalking over his future grave? He stood, said with forced jollity, “Your mam will be wondering where we are – and my belly tells me it is time for eating!” He whistled to Hasta and hoisted the boy into the saddle, made to mount himself and checked. Grinning, he looked up at his son and without word walked forward, clicking his tongue for the stallion to follow. Llacheu sat proud and straight, realising the honour his father was granting him by letting him ride alone.

  Watching his son’s riding ability with a discreetly critical eye, Arthur thought how well Gwenhwyfar had taught the lad. He sat a horse naturally, with no fear, hand contact on the rein gentle but firm, grip from thigh and calf relaxed. The saddle was too large of course, the four horns not fitting across the thighs or into the buttocks firm enough for security, but the boy had a good seat. The ground began to drop away, the hill descending steeply down into the valley; Llacheu adjusted his balance, leaning back and shifting his weight, his body swaying with the movements of the horse as Hasta picked his way down the grassed slope. Arthur smiled, pleased. A good horseman, his son.

  Walking in silence, Arthur allowed his thoughts to wander. Who had been buried in that lonely, high place? Then, would he one day end up in some equally lonely grave or would he be left unburied on the battlefield, left for carrion to strip flesh from bone? Arthur hoped there was no afterlife. He so feared the dark. He peered back at the stones, no longer visible, hidden by the crest of the hill. Those of the past might be forgotten, but their passing lingered on in superstitious fear. Or was it the inevitability of death that brought the fear?

  The stallion’s forefoot slid on the wet grass, Arthur put out his hand to take hold of the reins, turned in the same movement to hold the boy’s leg, relaxed, let go his grip. The lad was fine, his natural balance going with the unexpected movement.

  “You ride well,” Arthur said with pride. “You are almost six years now are you not?”

  Llacheu nodded.

  “You will be wanting a pony of your own soon then.”

  “Mam said she would ask Uncle Enniaun to find one for me when we get to Gwynedd.”

  “Did she?” The reply was blunt, curt.

  Llacheu bit his lip. Last night his parents had argued again about going north to Gwynedd. He had lain in the family tent opposite Arthur’s place of command pretending to be asleep, listening to the harsh quarrel. Mam wanted to see her family, to go where there would be a welcome and peace. Da insisted on going south.

  “So you want to go north also?” Arthur said stiffly.

  The boy was unsure how to answer. “I want a mount of my own and, although they do not breed so many now, Gwynedd still has the best.” He stroked Hasta’s silken neck. The stallion had been bred in the pastures of Gwynedd’s rich valleys, bred from the descendants of Roman-imported Arabian stock. Hasta and his kind were beautiful, short springing stride, arched neck, bold-eyed and
brave-hearted. He desperately wanted a horse like Hasta for his own.

  “So, if your mam decided to go you would accompany her?” Arthur knew it was an unfair question, but he did not retract it. Life was unfair, Llacheu had to learn that lesson sooner or later.

  His son toyed with Hasta’s mane, winding the long white strands between his fingers. “If you would take me with you, then I would stay with you. But you always say I am too young so I suppose I will have to stay with Mam and go where she goes. And I do want my horse.”

  Arthur laughed, his tension dissipating. A good enough answer. He squeezed his son’s knee. “One day soon, boy, you will not be so young. Then you may ride with me.” He winked. “Happen you ought to have a pony first though. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Llacheu grinned, then risked a question. “Why do you not want to go to Gwynedd?”

  Walking at Hasta’s head, Arthur was silent a long while.

  The lad’s lip trembled. Why had he asked? He had spoilt everything.

  When Arthur answered his voice was not laced with anger as the boy had expected, but filled with sadness. “Gwynedd is the one place where I do not, yet, have to watch my back for a dagger plunging in the dark.”

  The boy was puzzled by this. “But then, why are we not there?”

  Arthur put his shoulder into Hasta’s chest, halting the animal. He stood looking up at his son, his hand on the boy’s knee. “I must be seen, must make my voice heard, my presence known; must try and repair the damage which has been done.” He sighed. How to explain to a child?

  “There are many influential men, followers of Emrys – Ambrosius – who dislike me, dislike what I am trying to do. If they can, they will stop me. They have already made a start of it by attempting to divide Britain, but while I command the Artoriani I am a force to be reckoned with. Should I ever lose the loyalty and respect of my men, Llacheu, I am lost, we all are.” He squeezed his son’s knee. “Should I expect my men to stand in the front line while I sit on my backside in comfort and safety?”