Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (56 page)

§ XII

Evening was closing in,
though 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.

‘
Open!’
the 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
till 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 watch tower 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 the 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 opened.

Arthur held the reins 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.
Fie 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 setting 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 till 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,
hand-picked men 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 a heavily built
man, 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 at. 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 inno
cently
at him, her vivid green eyes swirling with sparks of tawny
gold.
Smiling, sweetly smiling, she said, very quietly, so that
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 that 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 soon
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.’ Arthur
squatted beside her, fed kindling to the low fire, the
flames licking gratefully at the replenishment. ‘I could not
come
earlier. Not with my wife in my bed.’
Brigid said nothing, thought, why bring
her?
As if hearing, Arthur
answered, ‘It is difficult to say no to Gwenhwyfar.’ He laughed softly, his
hand reaching out for a hank of black hair. ‘As it is difficult to say no to
you.’ Brigid laid her hand over his, brought it slowly down inside
the half-open lacing of her tunic, placed it over
her round
breast. But he made no
response. Nor did he return the kiss she
gave him. He did not want her
this night. Shrugging, Brigid moved away from him, fed more wood to the fire.