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jewels were lavish, her manner superior—she was a king’s daughter
    and a king’s wife. Her dowry had brought the basis of her husband’s present
    wealth and the accompanying extensive exchange of trade with northern Gaul.
    She greeted Winifred coolly, aware her guest was a divorced wife and daughter
    to a deposed, disgraced king, conveniently forgetting that her own father had
    been in the same position for a while. But then, Childeric held more friends
    than had Vortigern, and his exiled dethronement had been a temporary setback
    only. He was allied now with Syagrius of Soissons. While it suited him.
    Childeric could change his allegiances as often as the wind swung around.
    The two women embraced, their cheeks touching in token of friendship;
    both felt the cold of the other, both broke apart with barely disguised dislike.
    2 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k
    “The Pendragon is making much of a nuisance of himself in Gaul, so I hear,”
    remarked Anhild. “My father reports that the Gaulish landowners complain
    more of his Artoriani’s looting and whoring than they do against the Franks,
    Goths, and Saxons combined.”
    Winifred retained her pleasant smile—loathsome woman, as fat as a toad
    and as ugly. “The Pendragon is of no concern to me, Anhild, only his title and
    kingdom. The sooner he loses both, the better. It is his son who occupies my
    thoughts. It is for Cerdic I have come to seek my uncle’s aid.”
    “Ah yes,” Anhild replied, her Frankish accent distorting some of the Jute
    words, “your independent son.” Her condescending smile broadened as she
    motioned three of her boys forward, smaller images of herself, though they
    bore the red hair of their father. “My childer would never run away from their
    mother. We are too devoted to each other.”
    Your childer , Winifred thought, would never have enough brain to find their way out
    of this settlement without someone holding their fat fleshed hands.
    Aesc invited Winifred inside his Mead Hall, called for wine and food, served
    his kinswoman himself. Congenial, outwardly friendly and welcoming. All
    smiles and laughter, an eagerness to please. It was a waste of time, this coming
    here, Winifred knew it the moment Aesc had lifted her from her mare. Her
    Jute kin would not give aid in attempting to persuade—or force—Cerdic
    back to Winifred’s Castra. It had only been a vague hope that they would, a
    last resort.
    She sipped her wine, ate the food, though the drink tasted bitter and the meal
    stuck in her throat. Aesc would not help. Her uncle was over-fat and over-full
    of his own laziness. He had his kingdom, his wealth, and his pleasures. Why
    should he stir himself for a mere boy?
    A young man entered the Hall, swaggering with self-importance, another
    reason for Aesc’s unwillingness to help her. Ten and five years of age and
    with all the arrogance of his untried, incautious age group, the newcomer
    paused within the shadow of the Hall, his hand resting on the pommel of
    his Saxon short-bladed sword, the Saex. Winifred caught her breath as the
    youth came through that open doorway. She saw the very image of her
    father. Her brother Vitolinus was another Vortigern, the same chiselled chin,
    long, thin face and nose, small darting eyes. There was even a scar to the side
    of his face. Involuntarily, Winifred’s hand went to her heart, its beating fast
    and startled. Only the hair was different, his being thick and fair. Rowena’s,
    their mother’s, hair.
    S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 7
    He strode up to Winifred, acknowledging his uncle with a curt nod to his
    head; he stood, legs apart, fists on hips, before her, eyeing her, weighing her.
    “Well, I never thought I would see the day! My sister, deigning to visit the
    poor relations of the family. Come to spy on us, have you?” Vitolinus thrust
    his pointed face forward, reminding Winifred of a weasel. “Whatever it is you
    want, sister dear, forget it. You’ll have nothing from