From the shore, where he rubbed himself vigorously with his tunic, the pool looked safe enough, but even so he shivered. Superstition. Even in a man of level thinking it was a powerful inheritance.
Cei noticed the shiver and grinned. “Too cold for you, huh?”
“Na,” Arthur confessed, “too deep.”
Cei nodded understanding, his hand involuntarily making the sign of the Christian cross. “They say there is an island where the faery folk dwell, on one of these lakes, visible only at Beltaine. An evil place of pagan darkness where God’s blessed face would not look.”
“Aye, well, ‘tis not Beltaine.”
All the same, Arthur found it difficult to shrug aside that moment of fear when he had fought against the pull of water. How easy would it be to become lost within those silent depths? He shivered again, the memory lying heavy on his shoulder. As Cei had just now made the Christian sign of protection, Arthur’s fingers formed the horned sign against the pagan lords of darkness.
Noticing, Cei gave him a sidelong glance of disapproval. He decided against comment, saying instead, “Should we not take a look at the morrow’s ground?”
Arthur grinned back at him, grateful for the chance to turn his thoughts from the unreal to the practical. He strode briskly to the horse lines barking an order at an officer to take command. “And see to it no one goes near the mule loads while I am gone!”
“Do you not trust us then, sir?” called a soldier sitting outside a tent sorting his gear.
“Na, Lucius, I would rather trust a whore to stay virtuous in the men’s bathhouse,” Arthur answered brightly, a smile playing on his mouth. The men nearby laughed good-natured, knowing they would not have been picked for this duty were they not trusted. Escorting gold was not a task for the unreliable.
Vaulting into the saddle, Arthur heeled his stallion to canter away across the short, springy turf that in wetter months would be soft and bog bound. He reined in some distance up the hill, Cei bringing his mount round to stay close. They let the horses’ heads drop to tear at the grass, which held little goodness in this bleak, wind-teased landscape.
Arthur shifted in the saddle and hooked his leg around one of the two forward pommel horns, rested his arm on his crooked knee. Eira grazed, his sensitive muzzle searching for choice eating.
“What are we doing here, Cei?” Arthur asked after watching the lazy swirl of smoke from campfires for a while.
“We are sitting up here thinking of the men down there preparing our supper,” the big man beside him answered jovially. “And we are bringing a full load of gold from the mines to our bastard of a king. Your action was wrong, you know.”
Arthur glanced sharply across at Cei and frowned. He had known Cei would eventually say something about what had happened.
“The mines must be kept working,” he said.
“To fill Vortigern’s treasury? Is that worth the killing and maiming of slaves?”
“Is it the death of a few slaves you object to then? Or that we are guarding and carrying gold for the King?” Arthur replied angrily, for Cei’s words stung – the more so because he knew him to be right.
He had not wanted to accept these orders, given by the King’s eldest son Vortimer, but then he had no desire to be pulled back from the marshlands and return to Londinium either. The Anglian uprising was under control, the British somehow clinging to their supremacy – at least for a while, until the next thrust forward by encroaching settlers who were gaining in courage with every fresh outbreak of war fever. One day the dam would burst.
It had seemed a mundane task to ride westward to investigate rumours of unrest at the mines and to oversee the collection of a long overdue consignment of gold. But it was preferable to sitting idly kicking one’s heels. Better than having to play husband to Winifred – mind, even shifting a midden heap was preferable to that.
The rumours had been amply borne out. The slaves were sullen and rebellious, their overseers drunken and slovenly, the mines unworked.
The Pendragon had handled the situation quickly and ruthlessly, hanging the commanding officer for gross negligence, publicly flogging two junior officers and punishing those slaves who refused to work. There had been a brief flair of rebellion from slaves and guards, swiftly and decisively put down.
A handful of dead lay grotesquely bloodied as a result, women and children among the men. Even a handful were too many dead, but the mines were in business again, gold in production under the new, watchful eye of an honest and loyal man. Loyal to the Pendragon, anyway.
“I may not agree with Vortigern on most things, Cei,” said Arthur, toying with the few incongruous black strands in the white mane hanging over Eira’s withers.
His thoughts wandered, his sentence left unfinished. Strange how the horse’s coat was white all over, save for black tipped ears, black muzzle, knees and hocks. The mane and tail, too, had strands of black, and a broad dark stripe ran from wither to dock. Arthur reflected on some young horses he had seen bred that were almost black at birth, turning to grey then white as they gained height and years. He wondered vaguely if even these few dark markings on Eira would gradually fade.
Cei shifted in his saddle. “You were saying?”
Arthur patted the horse and looked eye to eye at his friend, cousin and second-in-command. “If I am to rule one day I shall need to control the economy.” He snorted contemptuously. “Or lack of it.” He swung his leg back into a riding position. “Even were I not to rule, I may soon need more than I have at present. Winifred’s dowry will pay for the horses Cunedda is breeding for me. But it is not enough.” He gave Eira one last pat, a firm slap on the neck. “The gold mine and a loyal overseer may come in useful.”
Cei gathered his reins, pulling his chestnut’s head away from the grass. He kicked him forward up the rising slope. “That I appreciate,” he said, flinging the words over his shoulder, “but why gather the wealth for Vortigern? He is already in financial trouble. Another kick to the backside may just be enough to topple him.” He pushed the horse into a canter.
Eira lifted his head and whinnied, his body shaking with the calling, impatient to catch up. His hooves danced, his head tossed. He needed no urging, bounded forward the moment Arthur relaxed pressure on the bit.
The two men cantered to the summit of the hill, the horses slowing as they reached the steeper incline snorting and blowing.
Arthur could not answer Cei. The same question was in his own mind. He had no answer, save he had seized the opportunity to put as many miles as possible between himself and his Saex-bred wife.
They dismounted on the ridge. Below on one side the camp looked small and distant with ant size men scuttling between the tents. The late afternoon heat had left a haze on the horizon to the south, in the direction of the sea. A mist was rising, promising a cooler day on the morrow. On the far side of the hill, the ground sloped less steeply down to a valley where a river ran and the trackway twisted with the lie of the land, looping outcrops of rock, leaping from one side of the river to the other, avoiding boggy ground.
They hobbled the horses, let them find what nourishment they could and stood studying the route east.
“Do we follow the track?” Cei asked, chewing a blade of grass.
Arthur squatted, then absent-mindedly took two ivory dice from his belt pouch and began idly tossing them in his hand, thinking. He rolled them, throwing a five and a one. He frowned. “It’s a risk whether we take the track or keep to the hills. Either way, we may need to fight if we meet others; Hibernian, Saex or British. Gold is of value to all.” Then again, he could keep it himself; claim they had encountered raiders and lost the lot. But it was a matter of pride really, would he allow raiders to take that which he was guarding?
He spoke quietly, regretfully, an apology in his voice. “The men need paying, Cei. Vortimer’s British men; my men. Were I allowed to bring my full command with us, then happen I might have considered sharing it out among ourselves and heading of
f into the hills. But what then?” He retrieved the dice and threw again, double two. “What good would it do us? Could we pitch in with Cunedda in Gwynedd? Buy passage on a ship back to Less Britain? Is that what we want? There would be no goal in mind, no future, save for running like outlaw thieves.”
Cei remained silent, brooding. Arthur was right no doubt, but still something irked him, like an unreachable itch between the shoulder blades. “I cannot help feeling we are nothing but slaves to Vortigern. We are under his son’s direct command, we run at Vortimer’s beck and call, but is not the one the same as the other?” Cei hunkered down next to Arthur, tossing his chewed stalk aside. “I am tired of it, Arthur. Tired of senseless skirmishes that gain us one step forward for every three we take backwards.”
Arthur stared out over the hills, empty of life save for wind bent trees, and birds. There were undoubtedly hares crouching in the grass, deer concealed in the clumps of alder, oak, elm and hazel woodland. Wolves too, lurking in the shadows.
“I had a dream once, Cei. As a boy, I talked of it,” he paused, remembering the warmth of Gwynedd, “to good friends. I was to be a great leader and command a king’s army – that was before I knew Uthr Pendragon was my father. I thought then, as a boy, men would flock to my side. I expected to scythe through enemies like a farmer cutting wheat.” He stopped. A falcon was hovering nearby, its wings folded, falling down into the grass. “A child expects the sun always to shine, Cei, thinks the sky is always blue.”
The falcon had missed. It beat upward again in search of alternative supper. “I still have the dream, but it is so far removed from what it once was. I still want my banner flying higher than any other but the glory has tarnished. Stupid, isn’t it? I once lusted after war, all I want now is prosperity and peace; to see people, ordinary people, contended. To see children with full bellies.” Arthur laughed, mocking himself. He stood up and kicked at a tussock of grass, put the dice away. “I suppose I have grown up.”
Cei stood also, watching something, a disturbance of the air, a faint shimmer of movement. It grew as he watched, shielding his eyes, squinting to see more clearly. A dust cloud was visible some way to the north along the track.
Arthur saw it too. “Best alert the men,” he said calmly. “One leisurely traveller does not make such an announcement.”
Cei nodded his agreement. Releasing the hobbles from his horse, he mounted and cantered back, noting with pride the men had seen him coming and were waiting expectantly long before he reached the camp.
Arthur walked his horse to the cover of some bushes. It might have been wiser to return to camp, douse the fires and seek safety in concealment, but curiosity had the better of him. He had a good view up the valley from here, and doubted he would be seen if he remained still.
No one coming from that direction could know of the load the mules carried, should not even know Arthur and his men were in the area. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Whoever was coming, was coming fast. He waited.
One horse, stumbling from tiredness was ahead, neck outstretched, legs pounding. Behind, a group of thirty or so riders urging on almost spent mounts. They carried no standard. The animals were small, sturdy hill ponies; not as swift and well bred as Eira and others of his type. The stallion had seen the approaching horses; he neighed a high-pitched welcome.
Too late, Arthur grabbed for his muzzle, cursing. “Damn you! What has got into your thick skull this day? You are behaving like an unbroken colt.”
Cei appeared, leading his horse quickly over the skylining ridge to join Arthur. “What do you make of it?”
“Someone is very keen to leave the pack behind.”
“Hunter, or hunted?”
Arthur grinned. “We will not find out up here!” He ducked his head enquiringly towards the ridge behind them.
Cei replied with a nod. “I have left some men on the alert in camp; one is concealed up there,” he pointed to the ridge, “as lookout. The others await your orders.”
Arthur nodded, satisfied. “Have them form line of battle a little down this slope – near enough the ridge to show we have no hostile intent, but low enough should it be necessary to take action.”
Cei acknowledged the order and turned to mount. Arthur vaulted into Eira’s saddle and let the stallion walk forward, picking his own path down the uneven grass of the steep hillside. There was no doubt the riders had seen him. The one in front faltered, reining in his mount so hard the pony almost fell as it staggered to a halt.
Arthur’s men came in a steady line over the ridge and took up positions, waiting, the Dragon Banner streaming proud above the bearer’s head. The rider saw it and gave a shout and kicked it hard into a canter, heading for the Pendragon.
The animal carried two riders, a man with a smaller, cloaked figure clinging behind. Arthur nudged Eira into a trot, glanced over his shoulder to make sure Cei was following.
Shouting something, the man waved his hand frantically. The pony stumbled, regained its footing, but weariness and the double weight were too much; its head dropped its forelegs buckled and it went down, tipping the two riders to the grass. Instantly, the man was up, sword in hand, running to his companion.
The pursuers were gaining ground, closing in, anger glazing their expressions. Arthur recognised the leader; Brychan, a cross-breed Hibernian settler. Vortigern’s man. A spawned cur-son of a fatherless mare! A toad-featured, pig’s littered runt!
Arthur frowned darkly as Brychan thundered up to him shouting some abusive comment that, perhaps fortunately, was snatched away by the wind. The other man, coming up to him at a run, he did not know. He indicated Brychan. “Whoever you are, my friend, I see you have angered the King’s sasanach dog.”
Bringing his right hand to his left shoulder in formal salute, the man – a young man – eased his companion behind him a little. “I have something of his he does not wish me to have.”
His mouth twitching into a smile, Arthur nodded. Aye, so he could see. She was small and slightly built, with dark hair and wide, frightened, brown eyes. Arthur judged her to be about ten and six years. He leant forward in the saddle, resting his arms on Eira’s neck, and pointed casually with one finger. “Brychan’s daughter?”
The said Brychan hauled at his frothing mount. He leapt from the saddle before the horse had come to a halt, rushed up the slope, drawing his sword as he ran. “You will die for this outrage, Gwynllyw!”
Arthur straightened, touched his heel lightly to Eira’s flank. The big horse bounded forward, between the enraged Brychan and the young man, Gwynllyw, who shielded the terrified girl.
“There will be no killing without my consent.” Arthur’s tone was mellow, with no sense of threat or malice. Those who knew him well, knew Arthur to be at his most dangerous when he seemed relaxed and easy. That good-humoured smile, that sidelong look with narrowed eye and cocked eyebrow.
Brychan’s men approached, snarling like wolves. One man impulsively spurred his horse forward and Cei was suddenly before him; smiling, sitting his hose easily, hands light on the rein, a spear tip hovering at the man’s throat.
“This is private business, Pendragon,” Brychan growled. “I order you aside!”
“No business is private before an envoy of the King.” Lazily Arthur shifted his gaze from Brychan to the men. All carried weapons. “This looks like a war band to me. Does it not to you, Cei?”
“It does.”
“Pah! I say again, this is a private matter.” Brychan stepped aside from Eira and waved his sword menacingly at the shrinking girl. “Come here this instant, girl. By the gods, I will have your hide flayed from your back for this insult to me!” The girl moved closer to Gwynllyw, clutching at his waist, her head shaking a silent no.
“She is mine, Brychan. I have claimed her – you have no right to deny us.”
“No right? By God she is my daughter and I say who she is to wed. Certainly not some upstart of a petty British chieftain. Gwladys, come here. Now. I order it!”
The two had crossed swords, figuratively, before, across Vortigern’s Council Chamber. Brychan, son of a Hibernian wolf and a British noblewoman, had claimed his maternal grandsire’s land, the barren hills between the rivers Usk and Taff, some few years before Uthr’s death. Vortigern had welcomed him – a prospective ally -with open arms, granting him favours and friendship.
When Uthr had made his war call there had been few who rallied to him from these parts. Vortigern’s gold and Brychan’s influence bribed too well. Arthur detested Brychan.
“I say again, Pendragon – withdraw.” Brychan swung round unexpectedly and struck Eira across the muzzle with the flat of his sword. The horse reared, squealing, front hooves raking the air in anger and pain. As the horse went up, Brychan darted forward and buffeted Gwynllyw with his shoulders, sending the man, winded, rolling down the hillside, and grabbed for the girl. Pushing his kicking and screaming daughter before him he attempted to run the short distance back to the safe semicircle of his men; surprised to find Arthur had moved no less swiftly.
Kicking himself free of the saddle Arthur had dropped quickly, rolling away from Eira’s plunging hooves to spring to his feet, sword raised, a yard in front of Brychan. He feinted to one side, dropped, and suddenly his sword was between Brychan and the girl. Arthur took hold of her, drawing her close to him with his left hand, the tip of his blade hovering over Brychan’s heart.
He was winded as he spoke, exertion and the surge of blood-heat taking his breath. “As I said, Brychan, this is my business.”
At an angry movement from Brychan’s men, Cei whistled low and threatened them with the spear he held. “I would not move a hair on your louse-riddled heads if I were you.” He hoisted the spear aloft, waved it in a single circle. The Dragon dipped once in response, and the waiting line of ten riders along the slope above moved forward, coming at a steady walk, spears lowered, swords loose at their sides. “I have only to signal,” Cei said, “and they will charge.”
The Kingmaking Page 24
