us.”
Her composure returned, Winifred spread her nostrils as if some foul stench
was before her. “I want nothing from you, little brother. I come for adult
council with my uncle.” They were talking Latin, a language neither Aesc nor
Anhild understood. She added tartly, “Go away, boy. My business does not
concern a whinging brat.”
Vitolinus’s smile was more of a sneer. “No? I would have sworn you
were here to talk of Cerdic!” He turned away, whistling, nodded again to
Aesc, tossing, in English, “My men and I have brought home a fine buck
from our day’s hunting. I’ll go help the butchering.” He sneered again
in Winifred’s direction. “The stench of offal is more appealing than the
company of your guest.”
One interesting facet. Winifred noticed Anhild’s expression of contempt,
and Aesc’s own narrowed eyes. Ah! Did they dislike her brother as much as
she did?
Aesc offered more wine, said, as he gestured for a slave to pour, “I sympathise
with the worry of a mother for her son my niece, but Cerdic is better off where
he is.” He sat back in his comfortable wicker-woven chair, folded his hands
across his ample lap. “I am content with the ruling of my Kent lands, but that
one there,” he pointed briefly to the door through which Vitolinus had just
departed, “that one wants a kingdom of his own. He intends to gain back his
father’s.” Aesc shrugged, accepting an inevitable outcome. “While your son
remains on his acquired stepfather’s land, Vitolinus will forget him. If, when,
your son becomes a man, he should have the notion of trying for what the
Pendragon now holds…” He spread his hands, shook his head. “Vitolinus has
higher entitlement to that land than Cerdic. I gave a home to my nephew when
he sought my protection from your,” his insincere smile showed blackening,
broken teeth, “shall we say, intended incarceration?”
Winifred too sat back, folding her hands. Murder would be a more appropriate
term. Unfortunately her plans for Vitolinus’s demise several years past had failed
when the wretched boy had escaped her custody. Her frown deepened. He had
disappeared the day Arthur had beaten her injured son, the day after that fire
2 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k
at her farmsteading. Aesc had been there to pay homage to the Pendragon and
agree renewed treaties, and the boy Vitolinus had run to his uncle and his Jute
kin, spreading tales and lies about his sister and his future. Well, perhaps not so
far-fetched tales. Winifred had held every intention of being rid of the boy, her
brother. But Vitolinus threaten Cerdic?
Could a worm threaten a wolf?
Eight
September 468
Bull’s blood!”
Arthur savagely threw the parchment scroll he had been reading across
the tent. It hit the leather wall, bounced a few inches, then lay curled up on itself
on the rush-woven matting. He was pacing the tent, arms waving, animating his
deep, frustrated anger, his expression dark as thunder. Bedwyr, his cousin and
second in command, and Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s eldest nephew, were seated
on the only two stools. Wisely, they considered it prudent to remain silent.
The officer of the Roman Imperial Guard who had brought the letter stood at
rigid attention near the door flap, his indignation growing redder on his face;
his helmet, with the splendid red-dyed horsehair plume and gold and silver
plating, was clamped tighter between the curl of his arm. Proud, rich dressed,
his armour—and ego—was old but immaculate, both a reminder that Gaul was
still very much a subservient province of Rome governed by and answerable to
the Emperor. He disliked this pretentious British king, was affronted at being
treated as if he were an imbecile.
“Have I this aright?” Arthur asked, scathingly. “The sender of this letter,
the present Prefect of Rome who is, in this instance, acting in his capacity as
Ambassador of Gaul, bids me welcome. He greets me with