Page 69 of The Road to Avalon
The space beside me in the bed was empty with no sign of it ever having been occupied.
For a moment, I lay wondering where Arthur could have got to before harsh reality came thundering back into my head, accompanied by the sound of a whole orchestra of snoring from over the wall. I sat up, pushed the covers back and set my feet in the wet patch on the rug left by the spilled wine. Oh yes, I had a job to do today.
A quick rummage in my clothes chest found me a light linen tunic that reached to mid-calf and a pair of sandals. I slipped these on and hurriedly fastened the sandals. Without even bothering to stop to brush my teeth, I opened the door into the Hall and stepped through.
Clearly a lot of our men had been drowning their sorrows last night and not gone home to their wives. They sprawled with their heads on tables or just lay curled in the dirty rushes on the floor. Good luck to them with that. Not a place I’d have even walked barefoot.
I scanned the room for Arthur, going from one snoring man to the next. Cei, Bedwyr and Gwalchmei lay slumped in unlovely drink-induced slumber, but I didn’t wake them. No Arthur. And no Medraut, either. Where had they got to last night?
I pushed the double doors open and stepped out into the bright, early morning sunlight. All trace of the previous days’ drizzle had evaporated, and the world sparkled afresh. How incongruous that seemed. I almost wanted rain to match my deep melancholy. No, that wasn’t strong enough for the pain in my very soul, the hurt in every part of my body, the ache to have my son back home with me. But calling it melancholy would have to do for now. I had other things to sort out today.
People had already begun their daily work. Here in the Dark Ages, they began at sunrise whatever time of the year. Telltale steam rose from the long, low shape of the bathhouse. Might Arthur be in there? Might Medraut?
With determined steps I marched to the door of the men’s side and pushed it open. The bathhouse wasn’t large. It boasted three stout wooden tubs on this side and two on the women’s. Only one of the baths was occupied. Arthur lay with just his head above the water, his dark hair slicked to his head as though he’d been submerged.
Well, at least I hadn’t barged in on some other man’s ablutions.
He must have seen me straightaway, but he disappeared under the water again for ten long seconds before emerging and fixing his gaze on me.
For nine of those ten seconds, a terrible thought assailed me. Right now, while he was vulnerable, I could kill him. I could hold his head under the water until all the air had left his lungs. He’d killed my son. I could have my revenge.
Luckily for him, by the time his head came up I’d dismissed that thought to where it belonged. But I’d had it, and that frightened me.
“Gwen,” he said, unsmiling.
“Arthur.”
The water in his bath must have been very hot because the room was as full of steam as a modern sauna. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades and stood out on my forehead, despite my light clothing.
He sat up a bit straighter. “Have you come for a bath?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Nothing would induce me to get in there with him, as I’d often done in the past. My whole body recoiled from the thought of touching him and a wave of unwelcome nausea almost made me gag.
“Then what?”
I compressed my lips. His cleanliness couldn’t hide the gauntness of his face, nor the dark smudges around his eyes. He looked as exhausted and drained as I felt, and probably had slept as badly and eaten as little as me over the last two weeks.
“I’m here for Archfedd,” I said.
“Ah.” He sat up, his body glistening with water. My eyes went to the lumpy white scar on his shoulder where he’d taken that arrow at Badon. I’d loved him… then.
“She doesn’t love Medraut.”
He reached for his towel. “And how is that relevant?”
For crying out loud.
“Of course it’s relevant. She can’t marry a man she doesn’t love.”
He stood up, the water running down his naked body. Why, when I looked at him like this, did I still feel that treacherous stirring in my groin, that yearning to have him hold me and comfort me, to feel his hands on my body? I hated him, didn’t I? For what he’d done.
He laughed, dispelling my lustful thoughts. “Why not? Don’t all women do that? Didn’t you?”
He had me there. I hadn’t loved him when we’d married. That had come later. And he hadn’t loved me. “But I didn’t hate you,” I said. “You didn’t make my flesh crawl.”
His eyebrows rose. “Do you hate me now? Is your flesh crawling right this moment? Is that how it is for you now our son is dead? After I executed him?” His voice held a challenge.
