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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