He came to a stop beside the dressing table and stared unseeingly at the items spread for my toilet. Suddenly his fist slammed down, making the mirror and comb jump with the impact. Some of the little jars fell over, spilling their contents.
“You know I have to follow up this victory—the Saxon matter can’t wait. But the longer Maelgwn goes unpunished, the more people will question my manhood. And warlords won’t follow a leader they have doubts about.”
“So what would you do…go to war against your own ally?” Anger over Morgan’s manipulation made my voice more sarcastic than I meant, and Arthur responded in kind.
“What kind of ally rapes my wife?” he snapped, resuming his pacing.
I swallowed hard, wondering what on earth was happening. “Ah, love, why are we going at each other this way?” I rose to intercept his circuit of the room and planting myself directly in front of him, put my arms around his neck. “Surely we can find a retribution for Maelgwn that doesn’t lose the men of the north or add more killing to the slaughters behind us. But for this evening can’t we put aside the problems of ruling and make this a proper homecoming, like that between any man and wife?”
Arthur ducked his head sheepishly, looking as chagrined as I felt. Sliding his hands down along the small of my back, he asked shyly, “Are you ready for bedding? Nimue said—that is, she thought—it might take some time before you felt like it, and I should let you set the pace of desire.”
Bless you, my sister, I thought silently.
“Well, I’m not sure…” I lifted up on tiptoe to kiss him. “But if we take it slowly and gently, I can let you know if it’s painful.”
So we bedded, but it was a cautious, restrained coupling with both of us remote and distant rather than close and loving.
He was unusually wakeful afterward and began to talk about turning the recent victory over the Saxons into a lasting peace.
“By making slaves of them?” I asked, and this time it was Arthur who was shocked.
“I enslave no man!” he insisted. “Wherever did you hear such a thing?”
“From the messenger who came to the convent—he said you took them from their steadings in shackles.”
“Well, he was partially right,” my husband acknowledged. “I put the hostages in chains to keep track of them. And Cerdic’s son, Cynric, will remain a royal hostage so other Federates can’t rally around him. But I’m not sure what to do with the rest…something that will assure we won’t have future rebellions.”
His voice was weary, but he began a description of the campaign he’d just won, and I listened attentively, like the best of war-leaders’ wives.
“Actually it wasn’t a single battle, but a series of engagements,” Arthur explained. “I suppose the Saxons call it the Battle of Mt. Badon because it hinged on the hill-fort above the town of Badon—the fortress we call Liddington.”
It had all started in early spring, when Tiberius sent word from Lincoln that something was afoot in the north. Colgrin and his cousins had ceased coming to market, although there were no signs of plague or devastation to explain their absence. Nimue—and common sense—told Arthur to call up the members of the Round Table, so he put everyone on alert for when the weather warmed.
Then Wehha the Swede reported that Saxon ships had been sighted sailing up the Wash, and men were gathering in the vicinity of Spalding. Cerdic seemed to be rallying the Fen people with reinforcements and promising to lead them out of the swamp and onto the rich midland farms of Logres.
“Even the northern Saxons heard his call, massing in war-gear and coming down the Icknield Way in wave after wave,” Arthur explained, using the folds in the comforter to create a rough map. “It was obvious that Aelle and Octha would join in, coming north in order to rendezvous at the Goring Gap. Once in the Thames valley, if they could convince the other Federates to rise with them, the combined forces could sweep clear to Gloucester. It would divide the British holdings in half, and give the Saxons control of all major Roads and ports on each side of the realm. That’s what I would have done, if I were Cerdic.”
Arthur sent Cador and his son Constantine to Oxford so as to block any Saxon advance along the Thames. Geraint and his men moved to the hill-forts along the Avon with orders to keep the southern Saxons from heading west but not to interfere if they were marching north. Meanwhile, Arthur set up his headquarters at Liddington.
“I had every intention of forcing the issue in the Thames valley, and the barbarians marched right into it,” he said proudly.
Watching my husband as he spun out the story of his victory, I saw things that were not apparent even as recently as last summer. His manner was more marked by determination than enthusiasm and his voice was firm and solid now that the dream was becoming real. Here indeed was a King to guide Britain’s destiny.
Cador and Constantine stopped the Saxons at Oxford, chasing them back down the Thames to Abingdon, where they ran smack into waves of new forces marching west. It was at that point that Arthur rushed through the Goring Gap, catching the barbarians from behind.
“The battles were terrible—bloody skirmishes with little groups, and milling, awful slaughters where the Saxons were massed without proper leadership, for once Cerdic and his sons died the Saxon command broke apart. That’s when I took his youngest son captive.
“After we had beaten them, I turned back to Liddington, only to find Aelle, late in joining the march to the Gap, had captured my own headquarters—took no prisoners, but killed every man and boy outright. When I heard that, I sent for Geraint to help me lay siege, and on the third day I recaptured the hill-fort with a direct assault. I paid them back in kind, which made it a grim and bloody business, and one the Saxons will not forget for years to come.”
I winced and closed my eyes as Arthur told off the names of the Companions who were dead or wounded, and when he came to Ulfin I couldn’t keep from sobbing.
“Uther’s Chamberlain was a fine man,” Arthur allowed. “And his son Griflet is as brave and loyal as the father was. Any leader is fortunate to have such men in their Court.”
I nodded slowly, trying to wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“’Tis enough of such talk,” Arthur announced in a quick change of mood. “We’ve busy times ahead. The people are longing to see for themselves that their Queen is healthy and sound, and a splendid entrance into London seems the best way to satisfy them. So get out your fanciest dresses, lass, and put on every bit of gold we can dredge from the treasury. I intend to impress them all—Briton and Federate, Cumbri and Pict—with the power and majesty of Arthur Pendragon. And,” he added with a mischievous smile, “I want the world to see that you’re safe in my care again.”
I let out a yip when he nuzzled at the nape of my neck, and then we were laughing and romping together, the awkwardness of our earlier mating dispelled by the return of our usual banter.
At long last I was home.
***
The question of the Saxon hostages caused all sorts of controversy. Arthur had taken one man from each steading, and we didn’t have the resources to keep and feed such a multitude indefinitely.
“I say we kill them all off,” Gawain growled. “Or sell them into slavery as they sell Britons when they catch them.”
“Absolutely.” Gaheris nodded, following the lead of his older brother.
“String them up on crosses, like the Romans used to,” chimed in a young man I had yet to meet. His grisly suggestion was made with such relish, I paused to look at him more closely. He was handsome enough, but had eyes that stared brazenly at the world, coldly assessing it in relation to his own desires. Whoever he was, I didn’t think I was going to like him.
“Agravain,” Arthur told me later. “The third of Lot’s sons. Leave it to Morgause to breed such a viper.”
It was the first time I’d heard Arthur speak casually of his older sister, and it surprised me.
“Gawain’s no viper,” I countered.
“No…but no thanks to his mother.” We were putting the rondels I’d brought from the Mote onto the bridles for the Companions, and Arthur smiled suddenly. “Gawain may be hotheaded and impulsive, but I’d put my life in his hands any day. There’s that to be said for Celtic loyalty.”
I wondered if Arthur knew Morgause had disowned her son but hesitated to talk about her directly. So I polished a bit of red enamel until it glistened and turned the subject to the captive Saxons instead. “What
are
you going to do with the hostages?”
“Bedivere suggested I send Cynric to our foster-father in Wales. Sir Ector’s Court is far enough away, no one will try to rescue the boy—and I know myself Ector’s a good man for raising young’uns.” Arthur sighed. “As for the others, I gathered them up right after the summer crop was sown. If they don’t get back to the fields, we’ll have famine throughout the Saxon Shore.” He paused, the rondels forgotten. “Cei has studied the barbarians for years, and he says they honor their oath to their overlord above all else. The mistake I made was treating them as political groups rather than dealing with them individually. Now Cei suggests that I have each man swear loyalty to me before his shackles are struck off. Oh, I know,” he went on hastily, “it means hours, maybe even days, in the arena, making peace man by man. But I can’t afford to keep them all in prison and I do need to extract fealty from them. By the time the oath swearing’s over, hopefully everyone will have recognized the fairness and justness of the Pendragon. What do you think?”
I put down my polishing cloth with a grin. “Sounds like Bedivere’s advice to me, years ago…whenever possible astound your friends and baffle your enemies.”
“If Cei has anything to do with it, we’ll astound ’em all,” my husband added cheerfully. “He’s arranged for us to sail down the Thames, all the way to London. There’s as many British as Federate settlements along the way, which gives us a chance to impress everyone. It should be as good a show as the Picts put on at Loch Ness.”
***
People have lived beside the Thames since time began, so travel and trade and visiting along the watercourse was commonplace. But this was the first time anyone could remember a progress for victorious royalty, and news of our plans swept through the valley like a fleeting Scottish rainbow.
On the morning of our departure a summer mist lay low on the water. It reminded me of the fogs that druids cast in order to confound their enemies, and I wondered if the Gods had sent it as a sign that they were blessing our efforts after all, for it added no end of mystery to our presence.
At the head of the fleet a captured longboat glided silently through the vapor, its carved prow rising into the sunlight like a water monster come to life. The Banner of the Red Dragon fluttered above Bedivere, who stood solemnly tolling a handbell as the captive Saxons plied their oars.
Behind him sat a drummer, a piper, and a man with an ancient war-horn—one of those curved aurochs’ horns rimmed with silver whose notes stir the blood of men going into battle. The deep, belling sound floated over the water, mixing with the pulse of the hand drum and the clear, plaintive whistle of the pipe. It brought people running from farm and field, out of houses and through town gates, to watch, fascinated, as we approached.
Next came the barges, looming through the mists like ghost ships, each filled with Saxon hostages. In the center farmer-warriors stood beside chain-mailed champions and local ealdermen, while at their feet lay the wounded, their bandages and splints giving them the look of broken toys clumsily repaired. All were in chains.
It was an uncanny sight, like something from a dream, and neither the hostages nor the people on the riverbank called out, but each observed the other in silence.
On either side of the river a long procession of Companions kept pace with the barges. Led by Gawain and Gaheris, Pelleas and Lancelot, Pellinore and Cador, each was decked out in the best of raiment, and the metal on their armor had been polished until it gleamed. Every bridle bore the red-and-brass rondels we’d given them.
Surrounded by the jingle of bits and clop of hooves, the Companions paid no heed to the people gathered along the path but kept a formal dignity as befits remarkable men. Between the majesty of the parading Champions and the waterborne proof of Arthur’s victory, the crowds were filled with awe by the time our craft came into view.
Cei had commandeered a large Saxon vessel and built a high platform at the beam end. Here we sat, robed and crowned and surrounded by pillows and furs and all manner of richness. Gay colors and silk hangings festooned the canopy that provided shade, and a range of pennants fluttered above the water of our wake.
Below us the leaders of the Federate rebels sat manacled to galley oars. They wore the regalia of their rank-brooches and bright bracelets of gold, belt buckles worked in cunning ways, and necklaces studded with garnets. Yet for all their wealth they sweated grimly as they rowed the Pendragon to his triumph—a lesson without words for every observer.
So we made our way by meadow and farmland, past hanging forests and the relics of Roman towns, and through the broad, beautiful sweep of the Goring Gap. All along the way the people stared at us in astonishment. Many fell to their knees in homage, some crossed themselves, and others made the sign against evil—but all watched our passage with amazement.
We nodded soberly to those who gave us a silent salute and occasionally raised our clasped hands so that everyone could see both King and Queen were there to serve them. I hoped it would help counteract Morgan’s gossip; the last thing we needed was for people to believe I had been in collusion with my abductor.