Page 87 of Warrior Queen
“Leudocus,” Arthur said, with a nod. “Good to see you again.” By his clipped tone I had a pretty good idea this wasn’t true.
Leudocus made a very low bow, revealing the extent of the shiny bald patch his comb-over was meant to hide. “Milord King.”
“Get up, man,” Arthur snapped. “There’re three dead bodies that have been sent to your office for you to examine. The fourth attacker escaped. No doubt he’s left the city by now, even though I sent a message first thing requesting the gates to remain closed.”
Leudocus licked his thin lips, his eyes darting about in an effort not to look Arthur in the eye. “Unfortunately, Milord, I didn’t receive your message until after the gates had been opened. Your escapee will be long gone, I fear.”
How convenient.
Merlin snorted. I would have done so too, if my mouth hadn’t been hanging open. Talk about aiding and abetting. But as Cadwy was this man’s king, what else could we expect?
“Well, you’d best take a good look at the three bodies you have,” Arthur said. “See if you recognize any of them.” He fixed Leudocus with a hard stare, daring the man to demur. “Here’s a hint– they’re more than likely locals.”
Leudocus’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “I’m sure I w-won’t,” he floundered. “They sound like brigands to me– a band of brigands out to rob you. Not locals at all. No. Not locals.”
I met Merlin’s gaze. He raised one eloquent eyebrow.
“Brigands?” Cei spluttered, emerging from his room to join us. “Who’re you trying to fool? Those weren’t common brigands out to rob us.” He had his arm in a sling but looked otherwise returned to normal, his face flushed a healthy pink with anger. “They came here for one thing only– and it most certainly wasn’t to rob us.”
Leudocus’s shifty eyes traveled swiftly around what must have looked like a sea of hostile faces. “Ch-chance,” he stuttered. “Bad luck. You-you disturbed them, and they turned nasty. Brigands are wont to do that… so I’m told.”
It sounded as though he didn’t want us to think he had even the merest passing familiarity with brigands and their habits.
“And how do you think these ‘brigands’ got in here?” Arthur asked, tapping his leg, a sure sign of his anger. “Did your gate guards allow them inside the city walls? Are they, perish the thought,incompetent?”
Considering how easily Arthur, Merlin and I had got in and out of here a few months back, this might well have been a valid accusation.
Leudocus shook his head, flabby cheeks wobbling. “The guards are most efficient. No undesirables can get into this city through any of the gates.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his eyes shot wide as he realized how he’d just refuted his earlier statement.
Arthur pounced. “So, in that case theymustbe city-bred brigands.”
Leudocus’s mouth worked overtime, but no sound came out. A puppet, a yes-man, a servant of his king, now tying himself in ever tighter knots. “N-no,” he managed, incredulous. “Surely not? They couldn’t have been…”
Merlin edged closer to me and leaned in so he could whisper in my ear. “This man knows nothing of the attack. He’s a lickspittle only, not privy to the inner workings of his king’s mind.”
I’d come to that conclusion myself, and now it looked as though Arthur had as well. He waved his hand at Leudocus. “Well, you’d better get off and take a look at these brigands and see if their faces ring any bells. They should. And you can tell your king, that before I go, I’d like to see him–here.” He paused, eyes flashing. “In fact, tell him these exact words– the High King requests his attendance at the Domus Alba in one hour– alone. No packs of guards. He can leave them at the doors.” He turned his back on the poor man, who was really only doing the job he’d been appointed to. “Be off.”
*
Arthur sat ona high-backed chair at one end of the largest room in the Domus Alba, the dining room, on a platform hurriedly constructed by the house servants. All other furniture had been cleared away to make a makeshift audience chamber, apart from the stool on which I sat, a little to one side. Merlin and Cei, minus his sling but nursing his arm, stood behind Arthur’s makeshift throne like a pair of sentinels, feet planted wide apart, intimidating frowns on their faces.
I’d chosen my gown for this occasion with care. In rich dark blue, with its long sleeves trimmed with fur, it clung to my curves everywhere it touched and matched Arthur’s own dark tunic and braccae. Gold circlets of rank sat on our heads, necessitating a very upright posture. We must have made an imposing picture, like something out of a medieval manuscript illustration.
A minute ago, Morfran had told us of Cadwy’s arrival, and his protest at having to leave all of his huge contingent of warriors at the doors. As Morfran left by a small side door, Arthur glanced at me, and I saw with a start the glint of mischief in his eyes. He was enjoying this.
I was about to ask him what he had planned, when the opening of the door at the far end of the room forestalled me. Anwyll, in full armor, stepped through it, then stood to one side. “King Cadwy of Powys,” he announced.
Arthur’s eyes lost their boyish sparkle and hardened. I followed his gaze.
Cadwy sauntered into the room. By himself. Not that our guards on the doors of the Domus Alba would have let any of his men inside. He had the air of someone who didn’t care that he was alone in the territory of the man he’d just tried to have assassinated.
He glanced about himself, taking in the room. More than likely he’d never been in here before. Why would he have? Euddolen had never been his friend, even though he’d been his father, Uthyr’s, seneschal.
The dining room was not large, for a throne room, and Cadwy’s presence seemed to fill it. As tall as Arthur, if not Cei, he possessed twice the bulk of either of them, enhanced by the thick black bear pelt he wore over his tunic, secured with a wide leather belt. His sword hung at his hip, and a dagger sat in a sheath at his waist. Armed and formidable– he clearly saw himself as inviolate, even in the den of his enemy.
My eyes slid sideways to peek at Arthur, but he sat impassive, watching as Cadwy strolled almost nonchalantly up the room toward us. Ten feet away, he halted. Corpulent would have been too good a word for him. If he reminded me of anyone at all, it was of renditions of Henry VIII by character actors in my old world– heavy, piggy-eyed… overweight. His dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, hung in greasy curls down his back, thick dark brows tufted above his eyes, and his grizzled beard had the appearance of housing part of his last meal, with his thick, greasy lips like two slugs buried amongst the hair.
The thought that but for Arthur I might have had to marry him made my toes curl with disgust.
