Drawling, insolent, “Wouldn’t know. Bridge has never been down afore.”
Gwenhwyfar too, had dismounted. While the men talked, she made her way to the woman. She squatted before her, heedless of the mud caking her boots, noted the sunken, hollow eyes that had no more tears left to be cried, realised the filthy bundle in the woman’s arms was a child. The thing whimpered, its tiny face turning outward, flushed scarlet.
“Is the child ill?” Gwenhwyfar asked softly, smiling, the question intended as friendly conversation, the answer was obvious. The mother drew away, wide-eyed, frightened, a half-scream on her lips the child clutched tighter in her arms.
Sudden movement behind! Arthur screamed a warning, leapt forward, his sword coming into his hand as he moved, but he was too slow. The axe, that bright-honed axe head, was coming down, falling towards Gwenhwyfar as the peasant split the air with the full force of his arms and shoulders. She ducked, rolled aside as Arthur lunged, both their breaths hissing with the need for instant motion. The axe thudded into the sludge where a hair’s breadth before, Gwenhwyfar had squatted.
Arthur’s sword was at the man’s throat, pricking against the skin. Breathing heavily, nostrils flared and anger great, he snarled, “Is this how you welcome travellers?” He brought the sword up, holding it two-handed, intending to bring it down through the man’s skull, but stopped, the blade raised, as, fearless, the peasant said, “This is how your kind treat the poor.” There was no fear, only scorn and contempt.
Although her heart beat wildly, Gwenhwyfar tried to give the impression of unconcern, as if having an axe almost splitting your skull in two was an everyday occurrence. She laughed ironically to herself. As, it seemed, these past two days, it surely was! “Leave it, Arthur,” she said, “these people have suffered enough.” She pulled herself from the mud, crouched again before the woman. “Can I help?”
The man bent to retrieve his axe, but Arthur’s sword crashed between him and the weapon. “My wife is generous, I am not. Another movement and I will have your arm off.”
The man returned Arthur’s fierce glare. “Your kind have done enough here. We need nothing, save for you to be gone and leave us alone.”
Arthur, tipped his head to one side, curiosity overcoming anger, lowered his sword but did not sheath it. “Our kind?”
“Aye,” the man stared directly at him, “your kind.” His clenched knuckles were white, jaw tense. “Your kind. Those who find pleasure in killing the innocent. Your kind, who destroy our homes, burn and trample our meagre crops, steal or slaughter our stock.”
His enraged gaze slid to the young mother cradling the child. “Rape and butcher our womenfolk.” None too gently he prodded Arthur’s chest with a grubby finger. “There’s one law for your kind, another for mine. You take what you please, do as you please. We accept that or die.”
“That is not my law,” Arthur answered, sliding his sword into its scabbard.
“That’s how it is.”
“Then it should not be.”
“What should be and what is are differing matters, my Lord Pendragon.” The man bent again, picked up his axe. Arthur made no attempt to stop him.
The Decurion, standing behind Arthur, his own sword drawn, snorted disdain. He was cold and wet, wanted to leave this depressing place, wanted to find that young idiot Ider, string him up as punishment against desertion and go home. “Ah, so you know who we are!” Dryly, he added, “I wondered.”
The villager swung to face him. “I know well who you are! I can see with my eyes. I recognise the Dragon.” He spat contemptuously at the banner. “The Pendragon, defender of the land? Don’t make me laugh! Where were you on the morning before last? Where were you when they came to burn and steal, kill and rape?”
“Who?” Gwenhwyfar asked the young mother. “Who came? Sea raiders?” She glanced at Arthur, surely not this far inland? Arthur shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, as much at a loss as she was.
The mother – she could be no more than ten and five summers – was rocking her baby, bringing what little comfort she could to the miserable child. She spoke in a timid whisper. “Amlawdd’s people.”
“And you call them my kind?” Arthur roared, his fists bunching, teeth grating. “I assure you, my friend, the low-born whore’s son who dared do such as this is not of my kind.”
Gwenhwyfar held her arms out for the baby, took it gently, the tiny thing was burning with fever. She stood, rocking the child as the mother had done, said, “We are here to revenge ourselves on Amlawdd for wrongs his son has done to us. He is to pay for the death of men of the Artoriani. So too shall he pay for that which has been done here.”
The man sneered at her, snorting disbelief. “Today Amlawdd shall grovel before you, tomorrow his men shall come raiding again. He means to take for himself a kingdom.” He looked pointedly at Arthur. “Your kingdom.”
Arthur’s bland expression was his familiar, implacable, grim squint of right eye half shut, left eyebrow raised. He had his spies, his people, and no word had come to him of this. He spoke now with a tone as hard as iron. “No one takes from me.”
Gwenhwyfar handed the baby back to his mother. There was nothing she could do, it was clearly dying. “Give him love. He needs no more in this life.”
“I am the only man here now.” The peasant spoke again, his bluster and anger giving ground to the hopelessness of it all. He swept a hand at the remains of the settlement. “When they attacked, I was not here, I had taken my daughter to wed with a good man.” He nodded southward, wiped a dirt-encrusted hand under his nose. “Had I not taken her that day…” He left the words unspoken.
“We will be coming back,” Gwenhwyfar said to him, to the woman. “We will return with your stolen cattle and some of our men will stay to help you rebuild.”
The Decurion muttered something disparaging, Gwenhwyfar was about to snap a curt reprimand, but Arthur cut in. “These poor wretches are as much my responsibility as the Artoriani. Who can they trust if their King turns his back on them?”
Arthur grasped the peasant’s hand between his own, held it a moment with genuine friendship. “My Lady Gwenhwyfar speaks true. It shall be.”
They rode away into the rain, Gwenhwyfar looking back once at the desolate place. Too often she took warmth, food and security for granted. And her husband’s protective sword. Others, too many others, had not that privilege.
XII
Evening was closing in, although the afternoon was barely spent. Relentless rain and heavy cloud surrounded the light, sent it scuttling away into the west. The gates were already closed when the Pendragon reached Amlawdd’s fortress, having been forced to waste time searching for another place to cross the swollen river.
“Open!” his Decurion roared, riding forward to hammer on the solid, iron-studded doors with the pommel of his sword. A face appeared over the wooden tower, two disgruntled eyes above a set mouth peering down at the riders below.
“My Lord has gone to his supper. There will be no admittance until the sun rises on the morrow.” The face withdrew, an open insult.
Arthur bellowed at the blank space above the defences; “Open the gate, you dog’s turd before I order my men to batter it down!”
The gatekeeper laughed scornfully from his side of the palisade. “And who is it who threatens my Lord’s property with so few men? Be off with you!”
Arthur turned his horse, stood the stallion so he had clear view of the watchtower and the wooden fencing. “I, Arthur the Pendragon, demand it!”
The gatekeeper hesitated, squinted at the sodden banner hanging lank on its pole.
“I, and a guard of Artoriani.” Arthur walked his horse directly beneath the tower, looked up into the keeper’s face, his expression murderous thunder, his hand beginning to draw his sword, defying the man to bar them entrance. The keeper flicked his gaze nervously across the group below, withdrew. There came a sound of footsteps clattering down wooden steps, exchanged words, running feet. The gate op
ened.
Arthur, the reins held casually in one hand, the other resting lightly on his sword pommel, followed the track up the incline through the tangle of dwelling places, where faint lights were starting to flicker against the seeping darkness. A crash from the Hall as the doors burst open, spewing light and men, and Amlawdd himself stood silhouetted against the brightness, arms folded, legs planted wide, his Hall warriors craning their necks to see the better, crowding behind.
Arms spread as wide as his false smile, Amlawdd tramped down the steps, his welcome greeting Arthur, who was dismounting, as if he were a brother long from home.
“Pendragon! Welcome to my humble stronghold, thrice welcome! It is honoured I am to call you guest.”
Arthur returned the smile and the bear-hug, knowing both for the sham they were. As false as a carved walrus-ivory tooth. He had never been inside Amlawdd’s gates, avoided the place. Until the necessity of this day, had never been nearer than a wattle hut built two miles distant beside the causeway that ran high above the marsh-levels even in the wettest of winters. He cast a quick seeking glance at the people beginning to crowd around, men and women, a few children. Found her: the woman he occasionally met in that small flea-ridden hut, caught her swift-sent smile, but did not return it. He was not supposed to know Brigid of the Dark Eyes. Amlawdd would have her dead if he suspected Arthur bedded the stronghold’s whore, Arthur’s planted spy.
Amlawdd was nodding, laughing, creating congeniality. “If you had sent word of your coming, I would have ensured a feast be prepared in your honour; as it is, we have just this moment started our meagre supper.” He gestured a small, helpless apology. “We can find you something of course… ” He bellowed for the cup of welcome to be brought. Then he saw Gwenhwyfar, coming from the darkness behind Arthur’s horse, her hair tossing loose, the torchlight sending shadows leaping across her face.
There were several things Amlawdd wanted. One was Arthur’s death, the second, kingship, which would come with the success of the first, and seeing Gwenhwyfar, he added a third. He wanted Arthur’s power and title, why not his woman also? With a look that conveyed more than polite greeting, Amlawdd stepped forward to welcome her, to embrace her as he had Arthur, but Gwenhwyfar had no intention of being touched by this toad-spawned maggot. She stepped away from his advance, stood beside her husband, her hand, like his, resting lightly on the sword pommel at her hip.
Pretending not to notice, Amlawdd ushered Arthur into the glowing warmth of his Hall and feigning delight as he escorted the unexpected guests to the table set across the far end, made elaborate show of offering Arthur his own comfortable, cushioned seat.
“I do not see your son, Amlawdd,” Arthur said, raising his eyebrows in question at Rhica’s wife as she dipped a reverence to the King.
She had to answer. “He is hunting, my Lord. We expect him not until the morrow.”
Arthur left the matter there for now, smiling to himself at the knowledge that Rhica’s body was safe with the rest of his men, camped a mile to the south. Food, good wine and ale were brought. Amlawdd lived well.
The Artoriani, especially-picked men each with a steady eye and hand, sat among Amlawdd’s men. They ate and listened and watched, saw that through the rising laughter and talk, they in turn were watched. As a weasel watches a young hare before striking the death blow.
Gwenhwyfar ate little, she had no stomach for the food. The atmosphere was polite if not convivial; there seemed no anxiety over Rhica. His wife, Eigr, had obviously spoken part truth, his return not yet expected. There was no sign of Ider. She sat between Arthur and Amlawdd, sitting as close to her husband as she could. Like his two deceased brothers, Gorlois and Melwas, Amlawdd was heavily built, but unlike them did not run to excess weight. A giant of a man, powerful in size and strength, he had a square-framed body that was muscularly toned and hardened: an ominous opponent at arms. Easy to see he and Melwas were of the same brood. Melwas had been shorter, his corpulence accentuating the difference of height, and his was the unconcealed sadistic ruthlessness. Amlawdd was more prudent. Gwenhwyfar’s insides were knotting at this enforced reminder of a man who had murdered her beloved brother, raped her, and brutally beaten Arthur. Melwas was dead, she herself had killed him, but Amlawdd was very much alive and his thigh was pressing against hers, his fingers brushing her hand, eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath her gown. Mithras’ blood but she wanted to slit the bastard’s throat here and now!
Amlawdd’s hand managed to find its way to her knee. She frantically nudged Arthur’s arm, but he was involved in conversation with Rhica’s wife, a quiet woman, who seemed not to have the courage to shoo away a hissing goose. Married at ten and four years, now, unknowingly, a widow at two and twenty!
Tearing the wing from a roasted chicken, Arthur bit into the tender flesh. He was enjoying himself, enjoying this deception. It was a game he excelled in. He said to Eigr, “Your husband hunts often then. Alone or with friends?”
Eigr wished she were not seated beside the King but he had insisted and to refuse would have been to offer insult. Her husband’s father had been of no help, besotted as he was by Gwenhwyfar. She glanced from him to his fat and lazy wife, seated on Amlawdd’s left. She seemed oblivious to her husband’s undisguised attentions towards Gwenhwyfar. Had that been Rhica… Eigr swallowed a mouthful of wine. Had Rhica been here, he too would be curling himself around Gwenhwyfar, for she was a beautiful woman and Eigr was plain. Rhica preferred beautiful women. He told his wife so, often.
With lowered eyes, she toyed with her finger rings. The Pendragon’s questioning was flustering her, she answered as best she could. Aye, Rhica was often away. Thank the God. No, not often alone, usually with friends. No, she knew not what or where he hunted. Nor did she care.
Arthur smiled in his most charming manner, interspersed the interrogation with trivial matters. She knew nothing, was too feared to be hiding anything of importance. Feared of her husband or Amlawdd? Both? Arthur drank his wine. Well, she had one less to fear now!
Beneath the table, Amlawdd was edging his hand higher. The prick of a dagger tip in a most personal place instantly stopped the upward movement. Gwenhwyfar smiled innocently at him, her vivid green eyes swirling with sparks of tawny gold. Smiling, sweetly smiling, she said, very quietly so only Amlawdd might hear, “If you do not keep your fat fingers to yourself, I will geld you. Here. Now. My husband would be pleased to have the rest of you.”
Wisely, he left her alone.
Tugging a comb through her hair with such force a bone tooth broke, Gwenhwyfar cursed and hurled the thing across the room. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her back to Arthur, who was whistling tunelessly. An intensely irritating sound.
“I have no doubt,” she said contemptuously, “that were Amlawdd to walk in here at this moment and demand I strip naked for his pleasure, you would go, smiling, and leave me to him.”
“Nonsense,” Arthur grunted as he heaved off his boot, began removing his bracae.
“Nonsense is it?” Gwenhwyfar unfolded her legs, rolled to her knees and faced her husband. “Is it nonsense that he was groping me out there, while you sat next to me pretending not to notice?”
Arthur rumpled her hair with his fingers as though he was soothing a ruffled child. “I knew you’d sort him out.”
“Oh, did you!” Gwenhwyfar slapped his hand away. “The man is a licentious, fat-bellied bastard. As was his brother. Have you forgotten what I suffered at the hands of his brother?”
“Gorlois was much the same, from what I hear.” Arthur made a crude noise through his lips. “No match for my father though! He took Ygrainne from him with the ease of plucking ripe fruit from the tree.”
Gwenhwyfar hissed sinisterly, annoyed at Arthur’s apparent unconcern and good humour, “Happen Amlawdd plans to turn the spear!”
Arthur briefly frowned, he had not considered the possibility of a similar revenge. A lazy smile spread. He leant forward, kissed his wife’s pouting lips.
“You’d not let him.”
“With no help from you!”
He kissed her again, slower, with more deliberation and force, suddenly glad that she was with him. Naked, he settled himself beneath the bed-furs, inviting Gwenhwyfar in beside him.
“While Amlawdd’s senses were conveniently occupied with pawing at you… ”
“What!”
“Oh hush, woman, while you distracted his attention. There, does that sound more tactful? I was able to ask questions.” He was unthreading the lacings to her undertunic. “I warned that you must take your own risks by coming with me. Amlawdd’s rutting is part of that risk.”
Huffily, Gwenhwyfar withdrew Arthur’s hand from inside her tunic. “Yours too, it seems.” A second time, she slapped his hand away. “Did you learn much?”
“A little.” Arthur paid no mind to her ill temper or batting hand. “I’ll have all I want by dawn.”
XIII
Cramp tingling in his arm woke Arthur from a deep sleep. Carefully he withdrew it from beneath Gwenhwyfar, rubbing the painful sensation of a thousand, thousand pricking arrows. He sat up, reached for his bracae lying tumbled beside the bed on the floor. Gwenhwyfar stirred, mumbled.
“I need to relieve myself,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” He tucked the sleeping-fur tighter around her body, holding in the warmth where his own body had lain. Pulling a tunic over his head and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he picked up his boots and made for the door. Once, he glanced back at Gwenhwyfar before he slid silently out. She was a mound beneath the fur, safe asleep.
Brigid was waiting for him, curled before the night-dead embers of her fire, her head resting on cushioning arms, dark hair falling forward, covering her face. He crept into the round bothy, knelt beside her and lightly touched her shoulder. She sat up, startled, her mouth forming a soundless exclamation. Relaxing, she smiled, welcoming and well content. “My Lord, I waited. I must have slept.”
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