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