While she lived within the solitude of the Goddess’s presence she was safe enough, for she, a maiden still, was under the command of superstitious respect. Here, in the Goddess’s realm of Yns Witrin she was protected from their wanting. But only while she stayed. The power of the Goddess held only here, within the brooding shadow of her Tor.
VI
Arthur approached Yns Witrin with unease, for it was an intimidating place. Yet he was no Christian to be in fear of, or damn, the Old Ways; even his following of the Roman soldiers’ god Mithras was not a devout faith. Arthur cursed in the name of Mithras, but did not particularly believe – most certainly did not worship. In all truth, he embraced the pagan god because it irked the Christian church to be bloody minded. No one told Arthur what he could or could not do.
Rising over five hundred feet, the grass-covered Tor shadowed its reflection in the eerie stillness of surrounding floodwater, a parallel, upside-down world. There were passages and caverns beneath, it was said, a way down into the Underworld Kingdom of the Dead. A holy place long before the Christians claimed the area as theirs, for the presence of the Spirit – whichever name he or she went by – was strong among this cluster of evocative hills that floated within the creeping mist and floodwater marshes.
Arthur was riding alone. He had sent the three men of his escort to the Christian settlement where they would find ale and shelter from the wind and threatening rain. He drew rein at the edge of the lake, looking across the placid water towards the sacred hill. Two swans dibbling in the shallow water further along regarded him with hostility, the cob standing, spreading his wings in a threatening gesture of defiance. The other birds, the geese and the marsh-waders, were agitated by his presence, circling and calling their alarm. Arthur ignored them, sat his horse, looking at a path that wound its complicated route up from the far shoreline of trees in a mazed spiral to the summit of the Tor, its terraces, time-stamped by the passage of feet from generation following generation. In the days of the old gods, the dead had been carried along its ritual way for burial in the underground chambers, or the women had danced along its miz-maze line to honour the Goddess. Few remembered the sacred track through the spiral now and the dead were buried in the Christian cemeteries. The Goddess was becoming impotent, forgotten.
While he sat, silent, the birds settled again. Arthur swung his leg over one of the fore-pommel horns and dismounted, his boots squelching in the boggy ground. He knotted the reins and hobbled the mare. Leaving her to graze, he walked to the edge of the water. Gwenhwyfar had walked often on this Tor, she had told him, while she sought to come to terms with the horrors that had come upon her. He remembered her saying: “The holy sisters were kind, but the Tor has a timeless silence that gives a special healing of its own.”
Two children. Their lives begun by him and ended by him. The shadows of Amr and Gwydre whispered and muttered constantly behind his shoulder.
Arthur stepped forward, his boots sank to the ankles in sucking water, but the ground beneath was solid. He took another step. Was this the mystery of the Tor? If you crossed these deceiving shallows, climbed to the summit, managed those tests, one way or another, did you fine peace? He walked another step.
“Take one more pace, and you will be up to your neck in water.”
Arthur spun round, catching his breath at the voice coming from behind, a little from the left. He swung so sharply he lost his balance and footing, almost fell, one knee going into the mud.
“I have expected you. Welcome, my King,” the woman said, coming from the shadow of the alder trees. She was clad in a muffling cloak, the hood pulled well forward, hiding her face, but Arthur knew who she was. No other woman could appear so silently from nowhere. Only the Lady could do that.
“There are ways across,” she said, stepping to the right and out into what appeared to be lake. “Paths of firm, higher ground, which will take you safe if you know them.” She began walking, the marsh-water coming no higher than her ankles. She stopped, stood a moment, watching his uncertainty, then tossed back the hood, revealing her face and unbound dark hair. She extended her hand in invitation for him to follow, said simply, “Come.”
A sudden image of Morgause entered Arthur’s mind. Why? Because she had once been here? “A woman I know was once priestess here,” he said, standing on the firm ground.
The Lady bowed her head in acknowledgement. “There have been many priestesses to the Mother.”
Arthur’s heart was pounding, fear streaking up and down his spine, tingling his fingers and sending dampness trickling from beneath his arms. It was almost as if he were talking to the Goddess herself through this startling, strange creature. She had a plain, solemn face with a nose too long, but when she smiled at him, the smile set free a brilliance of sun-dazzling brightness through her eyes, making the plainness almost beautiful. Again she beckoned, the blue-marked patterns of creatures twisted around and around each other writhing up her bare arm as she moved. Again, she said, “Come.”
And Arthur followed; as she knew he would.
The men stood pensive, exchanging nervous glances. One, holding the reins of their King’s horse, stroked the mare’s soft muzzle as another removed the hobbles. He straightened, shrugging. “Lord Pendragon would not have intended to leave her here all night.”
“No more would he spend the night here himself!” The third man shivered and crossed himself, nodded at the dark, ominous bulk of the Tor, black against the darkening evening sky.
“Where is he then?”
“Over there?”
“Surely not!”
“We must find him,” the man holding the mare said. “And soon. I’ve no wish to be in the shadow of the Tor come dark.” Murmurs of agreement.
They called out, shouting the King’s name. Mocking echoes came back across the black, black water. Lord Pendragon… Pendragon… Pendragon…
It was raining, a steady, chilling drizzle that pattered on their faces, dribbled into the lake, making a thousand tiny, splashing circles that ran and fussed into each other. They heard no dip of a coracle’s paddle, or footsteps wading through water, but there, suddenly, out of the darkness beneath the trees stepped a man. Arthur’s escort started in feared alarm, with hissing breath drew their swords. One man swore.
“How’s this?” Arthur asked, moving to his mare to take the reins.
“Bellowing my name across this silence then making ready to kill me when I appear?”
“My Lord, you startled us!”
“So I see.” Arthur mounted, saying nothing more settled in the saddle, surveyed the blackness of the Tor a moment before wheeling and setting for home at an unconcerned canter.
VII
Boots muddied, cloak sodden by the rain, which had deteriorated from drizzle to earnest downfall on his way back, Arthur burst into his Hall and crossed immediately to the group of men who had leapt to their feet beside the hearth-fire.
“You,” he snarled with a mixture of contempt and rage, his finger stabbing at them, “are confined to barracks until such time as I am able to consider a more fitting reprimand for your damned incompetence!”
The men of Gwenhwyfar’s escort said nothing, some staring at their boots while others bit their lips, staring straight ahead.
For several seconds, Arthur glared at them, his breathing heavy, jaw clamped tight. His stare rested on Ider. “How many dead?” he barked. Ider answered, gave also the number wounded.
“And horses lost?”
Again Ider answered, monosyllabic. For a long moment Arthur glowered at the young man, then let his furious gaze range over the others before sweeping his cloak off his shoulders and striding across the wooden floor into his own private chamber beyond the public Hall. The men let go their breath with sighs of relief, squatted again before the heat of the fire. He would be back, of course, after seeing to the well-being of his wife and son. And then he’d have something to say. They were not looking forward to the prospect.
Gwenhwyf
ar was curled before the fire, drowsing. Her head ached. She had considered going to bed, but had not the energy or inclination to move away from the warmth of the comforting flames.
The blaze stirred as the door opened, closed. She did not look up or open her eyes, knew it must be Arthur returned from wherever he had been. Only Arthur would enter their private chamber without knocking. Or Llacheu, but he was abed, asleep.
Arthur crossed the room and hunkered down opposite her on the far side of the hearth, holding his spread palms to the heat. He said nothing for a long moment, watched his wife then said at last, “That is quite a bruise to your head.”
Eyes still closed, Gwenhwyfar answered, “I can’t let you have the honour of all the battle scars you know.” She sat up, smiled at him, her fingers reaching to touch the lump to her forehead, “Though I think I’ll not take too many.”
He chuckled at her jest, added wood to the fire, watching as the log caught, a jet of blue-yellow flame hissing from an attached, withered leaf. “What happened?” It was asked professionally, as he would of one of his officers. No criticism or reprimand, just the asking.
“We were ambushed. Three miles along the road. Amlawdd’s son.”
Casually, Arthur added a second log, settled himself on his heels the more comfortably. “Na, I know that, I mean, what happened?”
She did not quite follow, shrugged her shoulders slightly. “What usually happens in an ambush? We were riding home, we came to where the scrub narrows into the track and they attacked.”
Arthur stood, his hand resting automatically on his sword pommel by his side. “So, my Artoriani, my men whom I drill and drill and drill again, were not alert? Had set no post rider? Sent no scouts ahead?”
Wearily, Gwenhwyfar shook her head. He was angry, although he was trying to hold it in check. She supposed he had every right to be. All she could answer, justify, was, “We were three miles from the Caer, Arthur. Would you expect to be attacked so near your own stronghold?”
He let his hand drop from his sword with a brief, conceding gesture. Na, he would not. But then, neither would he expect his men, men assigned as escort, bodyguard duty, to make assumptions.
“They are answerable, Gwenhwyfar. Their lax supervision put your life and my son’s in danger. I cannot do nothing about it.”
He was returning to the door, had his hand on the latch when Gwenhwyfar twisted around to plead, “The error has taught them – all of us – well enough. I was as much to blame.”
“It has not, and you were not. Failure to do their duty efficiently is not a mere error, Cymraes.” And he was gone, shutting the door with a firm click behind him. She knew she would hear every word he spoke to the men, for Arthur in a temper could shout very, very loud.
Ider sat hunched against the outside wall of the latrines. A safe location to sit and brood, knowing no one would come and bother you in such a disagreeable place. Across his knees was his sword. He had cleaned and cleaned it again these past few hours, but still he could not seem to polish away those smears of sticky, clinging blood. To any other eye the metal would appear to gleam, but Ider could see the stains, knowing the blood spilt this day – na, yesterday it was now – could so easily have been his beloved Lady’s. He had failed her, and had failed his King, and as the Pendragon had said, he was not fit to call himself Artoriani.
“Call yourself a soldier?” Arthur had sneered at them all, those dejected, embarrassed, worthless curs who had ridden as escort. “Call yourself Artoriani? Blood of Mithras, my son could do a better job!” He had not been scolding Ider alone, but the lad had taken the rebuke personally because he felt responsible. No matter that the Turma was on latrine duty for the next month, with their pay docked and confined to the Caer, punishment could never be enough for Ider. He was unworthy of his Lady, and nothing, nothing would atone for the fact that because of him, she or her son could have died; as his friends had died.
They deserved to be avenged. The father of the bastard who had attacked them deserved his heart cut out and fed to the dogs. It ought to be done, by God! Someone ought to take revenge for a wicked day’s work. I could do it! Ider thought. I could slay the whoreson’s father, were I not confined to barracks. Fortunate that he had an excuse to dismiss the planted idea, shrug it aside. It was the Pendragon’s place to deal with this thing, not Ider’s. But it had not been Arthur who had so nearly allowed Gwenhwyfar to die.
VIII
Morning. Scudding grey clouds, fidgeting across a sullen sky, had blown in cold in addition to wet; and there was not much of a promise of improvement. The horses being made ready for the day’s routine patrol snorted and stamped against the chill of the easterly wind. Gwenhwyfar was assisting to saddle them; she enjoyed being at the stables, grooming, oiling the leather of bridle or saddle, tacking up. Since those first days of early childhood she had helped with the horses, saw no reason why she should stop now.
A man, short of breath, came up behind her. “He is not to be found, my Lady.”
Wrestling with the girth straps of the saddle she answered irritably; “Nonsense. Lord Pendragon has confined my escort to the Caer. Ider must be here somewhere.” She prodded the horse’s blown belly, tried again with the girth.
Unwilling to disagree with the Queen, the man had no option. For over an hour he had been searching the place, asking questions, peering and prying, in, under and behind. Lady Pendragon had asked him to fetch Ider to her and he could not find him. Emphatically he stated, “He is not within this Caer, my Lady.”
With a grunt of success, Gwenhwyfar fastened the girth buckle, stood, hands on hips, considering. Ider was no boy to act churlish from a justified rebuking, had faced harsher scorn on the drill ground. Surely he would not disobey a punishment and take himself off in a temper of sulking? Llacheu would, were Arthur to punish with his tongue in the way he had lashed Ider and the men yesterday, but then Llacheu was a child, Ider a grown man.
“Have you spoken with last night’s officer of the Watch?” Gwenhwyfar queried, running her fingers down inside the now tight girth, smoothing any wrinkles from the sensitive skin beneath. “Question him. Discreetly.”
Where was Ider? Where would he go? Did he lie sodden in drink somewhere? Gwenhwyfar had made a cursory search for him herself, first thing, intending to ask how he fared this morning, for he had taken the death of comrades hard. A difficult thing, to bear grief alone.
The man returned, panting harder for Caer Cadan was no small site. He swallowed several times, bent forward, hands on thighs to gain breath, when able to talk, gasped, “Ider rode out at first light. Said he had urgent business to attend. Direct orders.”
The fool, the damned, idiotic fool! Gwenhwyfar knew instinctively where he had gone. And why. The horse she had been saddling was a war stallion, well muscled, sharp tempered and agitated by the needling rain. No mount for a woman, but Gwenhwyfar had handled horses nearly all her life.
She hitched her skirt and clambered into the saddle, kicking him into a canter almost before she was settled, heading for the eastern gateway.
The horse responded eagerly, Gwenhwyfar’s urgency communicating as excitement. The men, those not on given duties, followed her across the Caer at a run, curious, in the wake of those drumming hooves. Pulling the horse up, Gwenhwyfar slid to the ground, flinging the reins at the nearest, gape-mouthed onlookers and ran into the guardroom, pausing only for her eyes to adjust to the dim light within. She ran up the two flights of wooden steps, calling for Arthur, knowing he was atop with his officers inspecting some minor modifications to the watchtower. “My Lord!” Her anguished cry as she burst out into the daylight brought heads snapping round.
The Pendragon walked with long strides to meet her, shouldering aside those in his way. What the hell was wrong? Had word come at the western gate? Several thoughts flashed through his mind, the most alarming concerning Hueil. That he would soon be gathering an army was a certainty. The King’s spies kept watch on trouble again flaring in the north,
although Arthur did not need spies to forewarn him of Hueil’s intentions. The day news had come that the old lord of Alclud had been hounded from his own land into exile was confirmation enough. Hueil had proclaimed himself Lord, and Hueil would not wait long for a fight.
Anxiously, Arthur caught Gwenhwyfar in his hands, held her at arm’s length, steadying her, searching her face for clues. What she gasped was very far from expectation.
“I think Ider has gone to challenge Amlawdd!” The hubbub of voices ceased, all attention fell on Gwenhwyfar.
Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s nephew, and, since Cei’s death, Arthur’s second-in-command, called across from the rampant walkway, “Ider is confined to barracks.”
Turning her head, Gwenhwyfar glanced briefly at him, urgently at Arthur, clutching fearfully at his arm. “He was distraught at the shambles of yesterday. I fear he has gone to prove himself worthy of the Artoriani and to take revenge. I know he has! Arthur, he will be in grave danger!”
Arthur’s eyes flickered, several unreasonable thoughts springing to mind. How did she know? Was she, then, so close to Ider she knew his every move? Mentally, he shrugged the jealousy aside. Such a foolish gesture summed Ider up: a lad of brave talk and heroic ideals, believing in more than the truth, and living in a world of exaggeration and glorious triumph. Ider was wet behind the ears; he needed a few more sobering battles to bring his young heels firmly back to an old earth.
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