Several men ploughed their way to help Morgause up, but angrily she shrugged them aside. There were but a handful of them now; many they had left behind to die, more than half not surviving the last two nights. The wounded they had not even bothered with. They would not have lived long in this cruel weather anyway. Two miles to Din Eidyn, only two more damn miles!
Remounting the pony, Morgause kicked it onwards, the men huddling about her as they struggled through the drifting snow. They must reach the coast, could not stop; could not rest, for Arthur was not far behind. Every so often they could hear the baying of his men between the howling of the wind. The Artoriani, mounted on better horses and with the courage and elation of victory would be upon them if they stopped – curse all the gods and these poxed Picti cowards! Did they not see they had to get her across the Firth and to safety before Arthur came?
The Pendragon could not believe they had lost her. So damned close, so close to capturing the woman and having an end to her. He stood at the water’s edge, thin ice rimming the shallows where wind-patted waves ran against the snow-patterned rocks. He kicked a loose stone, sent it tumbling with a splash into the water of the Bodotria Firth. Lost her to a damned fishing boat that was pulling strong for the far shore.
The dead pony lay in a crumpled heap, fifty or so Picti men squatting, heads hung low in defeat beside it. With no more boats to take, she had left them abandoned to Arthur’s mercy, taking only those few that could fit in safely with her. Arthur watched as the boat progressed further towards the hills of the far side, hoping a squall of wind would capsize the thing, but the men along these coasts were experienced sailors, knew how to handle a craft, even in a snow-pocked wind as strong as this.
He could not see her clearly now, for the craft was going fast before the wind, but she had been close enough for her voice to carry when first the Artoriani had arrived. Close enough to laugh and mock him, to jeer that he had lost after all.
“I warn you, Pendragon, do not try to follow me, for if you do I shall call a curse upon you that you shall for all time regret!”
“I do not fear you witch-woman!” he had called impotently from the shore.
“Oh, but you do, Arthur, you do!”
He turned away, stared with dispassion at the hunkered Picti. Defeated men. It was in his heart to let them go, poor bastards. Hard enough to know the hurt of losing without being abandoned to the horrors of a victor’s mercy. They deserved better than this; although, didn’t they all?
Arthur walked back over the rocks, mounted Onager. His men were ready to do as they must, but he sat a moment before giving the order, watching the boat that was so small now, barely seen.
“You come after me, Pendragon, and I shall curse your sons. One has died; none shall live. I shall see to it, Pendragon. If you come after me I will have your sons!”
“I’ll be back for you, Morgause,” Arthur said to the grey, white-spurned waves. He was afraid of her, afraid of her mocking, threatening words, but he was more afraid of letting her stay loose. “Come the spring, I’ll be back.” He looked at the Picti men, haggard and cold, weary; pointed at two of them, the strongest looking. Had them hauled to their feet.
“You two I will not slay. You will be given food and warm cloaks, allowed to go to your home.” Arthur leant forward over Onager’s neck, one arm resting along the chestnut’s crest. “And you will tell them, those people of Edda, that your lord fell in battle and that Lot and his daughter were executed by my orders.” His narrowed eyes bored into the nearest man, a man with dark eyes and hair. “Tell them that when the first buds show on the trees after the going of the snows, they will see my Artoriani in Caledonia, and their hills will run red from the blood of every man, woman and child that I find. I will do this, I will burn and I will kill – but I promise this also, in the name of the Dragon that is my banner, not one person shall be harmed if I am given Morgause. Not one warrior, not one boy-child. The life of your people, your families, for one woman.”
He lifted a single finger, held it a moment before raising his eyebrows, an expression to emphasise he meant every word. “To show this as truth, your men here will be given honourable death. There will be no mutilation, no torture.” He smiled a lazy, superior smile. “It is Morgause who treats brave and noble warriors with disrespect, not the Pendragon.” And then he turned Onager and rode away, south, back to Trimontium. Trying to convince himself that he was not afraid of Morgause, or her threatening words.
September 463
XLVIII
“Lady, a young man is asking to see you.”
Gwenhwyfar was sewing the delicate gold stitching of the dragon’s eye on the new banner she had been working these past, long months. It was near finished, would be ready when Arthur returned here to Caer Luel from the high lands. She raised her head from the intricate work, her fingers hesitating before making the next stitch. “A messenger? From my Lord Pendragon?”
Bad news? Good? Her heart thumped.
Nessa shook her head. “Na, Lady, he has ridden from the south.” Added with a twinkle of excitement, “He’s a handsome lad, gives his name as Bedwyr ap Ectha.”
Hands flying to her cheeks with a gasp of surprised pleasure, the sewing quite forgotten, Gwenhwyfar leapt to her feet and ran across the chamber as a man entered through the open door. She squeaked with delight, and laughing, flung herself into his open arms. Bedwyr twirled her around as if she were a young girl again, hugged her, kissed her cheek.
“How you have grown!” she said with approval, releasing herself from his embrace, but holding, still, to his hands. “Let me look at you!” She stepped back, smiling, assessing the young man. With a flop of dark hair, and eyes that sparked a promise of mischief, he was indeed handsome. He was not quite Arthur’s tall height, nor as thickset as his elder brother, Cei, who was broad built, with a bull neck and solid, squared features. Bedwyr’s chin was set as square as Cei’s, his eyes as deep and dark, but he was altogether leaner, more supple. If Cei was the ox, then Bedwyr most certainly was the stag.
Taking his hand and leading him to her own comfortable chair, Gwenhwyfar exclaimed, “Why, I saw you last when you were, oh, two and ten winters old!” She calculated quickly in her mind, her eyes widening with disbelief. “That is eight years past!” She shook her head at the quick passing of years, kissed him again on the cheek. “Oh, it is good to see you Bedwyr!” She withdrew her hands from his, sat back on her heels, asked Nessa to fetch wine and food.
The girl, standing by the door, remained immobile, staring. Never had she seen a man so desirable.
“Nessa!”
She visibly jumped at Gwenhwyfar’s rebuke, scuttled from the room, raising her gown almost to her knees as she ran, red-faced with embarrassment. Amused, Gwenhwyfar cast a reprimanding frown at the young man. “I trust you will not have the same effect on all my serving women?”
“What effect?” he asked innocently.
Kneeling on a wolf-skin beside him, Gwenhwyfar playfully slapped his knee. “You have grown into a rogue, Bedwyr ap Ectha! I think you most certainly do not emulate your aunt’s piety!”
He hesitated a heartbeat moment before laughing, a warm, rich sound, rising from deep within his chest. “Arthur’s mother had straight-faced ideals, they were never mine.” Quickly he asked her questions. “How is Arthur? How goes the campaign in the north?” He sat forward to the edge of the chair, caught her hand again. “Tell me, I wish to know all the details. All of them, mind.”
“All? We’ll be here into next summer,” Gwenhwyfar laughed with him – oh it was so good to see him, this boy she had known during those distantly remembered days of exile in Less Britain, before she had Arthur for her own. Those had been dark, sad days of loneliness for Gwenhwyfar. The boy, Bedwyr, with his spontaneous laughter and chatter, had brought sunshine into the rainy days.
“The fighting is over,” she said, “Arthur is making his way south.” Did she sound a little too impatient?
It had been
a long summer, waiting here at Caer Luel. When the snows began to creep from the hills, the Artoriani had saddled their horses and ridden north, as Arthur had said. Gwenhwyfar, swelling with child, had turned south to this better protected place, Caer Luel, to wait: only to give birth to a dead-born boy, and then wait again with her grief, wait for Arthur to send word he was returning, frightened that he was never to come back.
And now Bedwyr was here and as when he was a boy, the sun seemed to have appeared from behind the clouds. Arthur was coming, she knew that, and the grieving and fear suddenly lifted. Tucking her feet beneath her, Gwenhwyfar settled herself comfortably. “But what of you? We had hoped you would come to join with the Artoriani before this.”
Bedwyr went to the door, took the tray that Nessa carried, put it on a side table and began helping himself to food. He had his back to Gwenhwyfar, but she did not need to see his expression for the bitterness in his voice was potent.
“I could not come for I have been caring for a saddened, ageing woman as she neared the ending of her days.”
He swung around to her as she began to protest an answer. “Arthur should have come, Gwenhwyfar, when I wrote three years past to tell him his mother was ill.” He nodded his head, lips set firm. “It took her a twelvemonth to die. I spent those months in and out of a stinking sick room, where a grieving woman asked every day to see her son. Not once did Arthur care to come to her, or even send word. My brother came, once, when our King could spare him, but not my cousin. Not Arthur.”
Gwenhwyfar had no words to say. She had not known.
He turned again to the food, piled bread and meat and preserves on a platter, strode to the chair and seated himself. Began to eat.
“Arthur never told me.” Gwenhwyfar stared into the glow of the brazier. The charcoal was a warm red, a comforting, comfortable colour. The news shocked her, the hearing of Ygrainne’s death and that Arthur had never said. But then, they had been apart so long, so often. “He has been much preoccupied these past years.” It was an excuse, she knew, but what more could she say?
His mouth full, Bedwyr made no comment.
She tried, “He could not have come, even if… ”
Bedwyr interrupted, said candidly, “Even if he’d have wanted to?”
Risking an apologetic smile, Gwenhwyfar stated the truth. “Arthur had no love for his mother, nor she for him.” Bolder, added, “For Arthur, Ygrainne has never existed. I think… ” she dropped her hands to her lap, sat examining her fingers. Her sewing needle had pricked the skin on one, leaving it rough and sore. “I think he never forgave her for abandoning him to Morgause.”
Chewing cold chicken, Bedwyr asked a question he had never been able to answer for himself. “Why was Morgause so cruel to him? She never harmed Cei or myself.”
“You and Cei had a father. Arthur did not.” Standing up, Gwenhwyfar went to fetch wine, poured for herself and Bedwyr. “And Uthr loved him, a boy who was supposedly a bastard born. For that, Morgause taunted Arthur, and the taunting turned to a hating that seethed beyond proportion.”
“Is that why she was behind this war in the north?”
“Partly.”
Bedwyr spread his hands, laughed, breaking the melancholy of serious talk. “Well it is no more. Ygrainne is gone and so, we hope, has her sister Morgause. My father, Ectha, is well and is content seeing to Arthur’s estate in Less Britain, and I have been travelling.”
“Travelling?” Curious, Gwenhwyfar settled herself once again on the wolf-skin, eager, like a child, to hear a story.
“I had a mind to see something of the Roman world before it all disappeared under the bloody swords of various barbarian pirates. With the duty to my aunt relieved from me I have followed my fancy a while.”
Then he told of ships and strange beasts, of Italy and Rome. Of the Holy Land and Africa. Of a sun so hot it burnt your skin through your clothes, and plains of sand that went on for ever. “I have lain seasick in wallowing ships, ridden on camels that made me feel sicker and loved and laughed with women more beautiful than Venus! I have seen and heard and smelt the wonders of the world – and almost gave myself to God, when I feared I had caught the pox.”
Gwenhwyfar cast an anxious glance at him. “Pox?”
He laughed. “I awoke one night, my body a mass of itching sores – I was convinced I was going to die. I vowed as I lay sweating in a fever that should I survive till morning I would seek a vocation within the Church.”
Intrigued, she asked, “What happened?”
Bedwyr guffawed. “I discovered I had made my bed on some damned insects’ nest, who were rightfully angry at my intrusion! I figured an act of my own stupidity did not warrant such drastic penance, and besides,” his laughter increased, “I found a pretty maid in the next village who was obliging enough to rub a healing salve on the bites.”
Gwenhwyfar crowed with delight, reached forward to slap him playfully around the ear. “Ah Bedwyr. I ought to berate you for not coming earlier to us!” She dropped serious. “We have been in such sore need of laughter, Arthur and I.”
He flapped his hand, embarrassed, regretful. “I was angry with Arthur, but it was a childish anger, given from grief. Ygrainne treated him as no mother should treat a son, but she had been good to me. I owed her a time for grief.” Then he laughed again, “But I am here now. Travelling has lost its appeal and I have forgiven my cousin.” He winked. “Aside from that, my purse grows empty. I had to go somewhere, and now I have escaped the estate where I was born and grew, I realise I do not much care for the prospect of a lifetime of harvesting grapes.”
Laughing with him, Gwenhwyfar took his hands in hers, already the feeling of hope and promise that had eluded her and Arthur these past few tormented years was returning. When Arthur came back all would get better. They would find somewhere of their own to settle, and she would have another son. Another son to replace the two little ones who lay cold in their graves. One who had drowned, one who had not survived birth.
“So what have you a mind to do now?” She forced the brightness back. She was half teasing, expecting some jested answer for return.
But what he said was unexpected in its seriousness, “I intend to see the Wall.”
Gwenhwyfar drew a little apart from him. “What? You arrive and then leave us again?”
“Na,” he chided. “Not straight away, in a day or two.” He leant forward and tweaked a strand of hair coming loose from her braid. “I need to meet your two boys first, and have a good sleep and a bath!” He rose from the chair and wandered around the small room, touching a wall hanging, scenting a bowl of picked flowers. Smiling at Nessa as she glanced up at his passing. And bed a woman, he thought.
Nessa smiled back, her cheeks tinged pink. She had read his mind.
“The Wall?” Gwenhwyfar queried. “There is little to see save mile upon mile of stone, broken occasionally by a derelict fort.”
Nessa spoke, excited, eager to be included in the conversation. “What of the Spirit, my Lady? They say as how there is the spirit of some poor soldier left pacing the rampart walk in solitary patrol.”
“Nonsense, Nessa.”
Suddenly Bedwyr seized Gwenhwyfar’s hand, pulled her to her feet, whirled her a few paces, his face alight with enthusiasm. “How do we know it is nonsense until we have discovered for ourselves?” He danced her a few more turns around the chamber. “Come with me! Let us find this spirit! Let you and me ride together.”
“I don’t think… ”
He stopped, held his arms wide. “Oh, come on! When you were no more than a girl in Less Britain we would ride on many a brave-hearted adventure together.”
“I am no longer the young maid, and I have cantered through enough adventures beside my Lord husband, without starting a new one with his irresponsible young cousin!”
He pouted, his lower lip poking from beneath the upper. Then he whirled to Nessa, hauled her to her feet, danced her a few paces. “Nessa would come with me, wouldn’t you, lass?�
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Breathless, the serving girl knew not how to answer. Imploring, she gazed at her mistress. She had been given her manumission from slavery months back, but she still felt uncertain about making many of the decisions that came with freedom.
Shaking her head, Gwenhwyfar laughed, surrendered to the tide of enthusiasm. Why not? Until Arthur returned, there was nothing else to do at Caer Luel.
XLIX
They had ridden easy, taking pleasure in the warmth of a late, drowsing summer that was reluctant to mature into autumn. They slept in the shelter of crumbling forts; rode side by side, pointing out birds in flight, a herd of running deer, once, a wolf sighted in the distance, watching them in turn. Laughing together; enjoying the sun and wild silence they reached as far as the great fortress of Cilurnum, but discovering the bridge no longer spanned the wide river, decided to pass the night in its protection, then turn about and return to Caer Luel. Arthur would, after all, be expected back soon, Gwenhwyfar was missing her boys, and the weather was changing.
Late afternoon they gave the horses their heads as blackening skies rumbled behind the first fall of rain. Blowing, sides heaving, the animals galloped up the rise towards the next mile-castle. It was a hastily made choice – return to the nearer, smaller turret, or hasten on to the further, yet larger mile-castle. With the wind and rain coming at their backs, there was no difficulty in the decision.
Clattering through the gateway, their escort of ten men dismounted hurriedly and ran with the animals to what little shelter was provided by the remaining timbers of the stabling. Thunder crashed overhead moments after a vivid streak of lightning ripped across the black sky. Bedwyr was all for ushering Gwenhwyfar and Nessa into the nearest intact building.
“Rest in here,” he shouted, kicking the broken door aside with his foot. “I shall help the men gather wood for a fire.”
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