Page 77 of The Road to Avalon
Cei’s worried gaze flicked between the two of us as though he were watching a volley of tennis shots.
“Don’t you dare bring that up again,” Arthur snarled. “I did the right thing there. I didn’t want to. You don’t know how much it hurt to have to do that.” He ran his fingers through his hair making it stand on end alarmingly. “I wanted him to be innocent. I wanted him to be my heir. But he couldn’t be. Not after what he’d done.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “And now look how handily Medraut has presented himself to you and become your heir. Don’t you think he might have been behind Amhar’s behavior? Was he whispering to Amhar that you preferred Llacheu? Was he stoking our son’s jealousy? For his own advancement? Don’t you ever think that? Don’t you?”
Arthur’s hand went to his head. “I must have an heir, Gwen. Medraut is the only one who can follow me now.” He looked up, real malice in his eyes. “You’reunlikely ever to give me another son. You won’t let me anywhere near you.”
“And why d’you think that is? Give you a clue– youkilledmy son. My innocent son. Do you really think I want to sleep with a murderer? It’s bad enough to have to share your bed. And now you want to hand over our daughter to a man who’s going to rape her. You’re not the man I married, not the Arthur I thought I knew. I never want you to touch me again.”
He shut up. Maybe I’d got in enough blows. Cei shifted uncomfortably and took a step back into the sunlight. Gildas examined his sandaled feet.
I needed to finish this. “So just fuck off, why don’t you, and find out how good having Medraut as your heir is really going to be. I don’t see that working, do you? He’s the one you should have executed. He’s got a heart as black as a cesspit and a mind to match. See how you bloody well like that.”
I spun on my heel and walked back to where Archfedd stood waiting by the altar. She caught my hand. “I never knew you had it in you,” she whispered in something akin to awe, while keeping her eyes fixed on her father where he still stood framed in the doorway.
“You’ve not heard the last of this,” Arthur shouted. “Shewillmarry Medraut. Butyoucan stay here forever as far as I care.”
“I don’t care,” I shouted back, my dignity in shreds. “Just go fuck yourself. You’re never having her.”
Gildas abandoned his study of his feet and stepped forward, arms spread again. “I think you’d better leave,” he said to Arthur, his tone calm but authoritative. He stood an inch or so taller than my husband and was big boned and solid now, much as his dead brother Hueil had been. Arthur retreated in front of him.
I turned back to Archfedd. “You’re safe for now.” I put my arms around her. “You can relax. He knows he can’t come storming in here and take you.”
She nodded, but her face had blanched. “But how long do we have to stay here for? The rest of my life? I don’t think he’ll give up. Heisthe High King, after all, and we’ve crossed him, and he doesn’t like it.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “Let’s not think about it for a while. He’ll go back to Din Cadan, and tomorrow, you and I’ll go and find that little chapel where Reaghan is learning to be a religious, and we’ll see how she’s getting on. That’ll make you feel better.”
Archfedd’s face brightened. “I’d like that. I’ve really missed her.”
I had some questions I needed to ask Reaghan.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I’d quite failedto consider how boring sanctuary would be. Twenty-four hours of doing nothing had both of us tearing our hair out by the next morning. With nothing to occupy us, all we could do was sit and twiddle our thumbs and talk to each other, or occasionally to Gildas. The other monks steered well clear of such strange creatures as women, even the lay brothers.
Luckily, Gildas came to us in the morning, after Prime, and told us he’d set a guard where he could spy on the monks’ wharf. This man would warn us of the arrival of any boat from the lake village bearing a possible intruder.
So, after we’d eaten a spartan breakfast of bread, cheese and weak cider, we set off to find Reaghan’s chapel, armed with Gildas’s directions and wearing the sandals and rough homespun tunics he’d had the foresight to provide as disguises.
A blue sky arched over our heads, with just a light snaring of mist still clinging to the trees where the marshes began, and the walk was pleasant. After being cooped up in smelly sanctuary even for just a day, we both appreciated our regained freedom, and I for one had a skip in my step. On a beautiful day you can’t stay miserable for long.
Our way led along the north side of Wearyall Hill, following the route of what would one day be the A361 and the A39. Sheep dotted the steep hillside to our left, and wet marshland crowded close on our right, with banks of reeds and small, stunted trees along the limits, one with a heron sitting looking prehistoric in its topmost branches. Open water glimmered in the distance, and further off the distant humps of the other marshland islands rose out of the thin mist like so many gigantic, beached whales.
A couple of gleaming swans rose into the air, the distinctive whump of their wingbeats so easy to distinguish from that of any other waterbird. They soared above our heads, elegant necks outstretched, and turned toward the abbey fishponds. A moorhen called, the sawing of unseen grasshoppers made music in the warm air, and a chiffchaff sang as we passed his gorse bush. If we’d been here for any other reason, I’d have found time to appreciate the beauty of the day.
After about a mile, a narrow track turned westward, to our right, heading out into the marshland, and in the distance a low hill rose above the reeds. Not convinced of the safety of this path, despite Gildas’s reassurances before we left, I’d brought a stout staff with me. I went first, testing the ground ahead of us, but it was a path well walked by many feet, and although dank marsh crowded in on either side, someone had laid a fine log causeway and our feet stayed dry.
Bec Eriu was the name Gildas said the locals had given the tiny islet– little Ireland. An Irishwoman named Brigid had come over about twenty years since and spent two years establishing her chapel and a community of religious women before hightailing it back to Ireland. She’d left behind her hood, her rosary beads, her weaving tools and a hand bell, all of which he assured me we’d be shown if we asked. They seemed an odd selection of mementoes to leave for your followers. Surely she’d have needed to keep those things for herself?
Brigid must have been a woman of influence, though. The chapel, although small, appeared to have been well built, if only of wattle and daub. A substantial and well-maintained thatched roof rose steeply to an apex decorated with a small wooden cross at either end, as if to remind us we were visiting a religious house. It sat squarely on one end of a low ridge, just above the marshland, and around it clustered the usual array of more humble buildings– accommodation, no doubt for the acolytes, storage and a kitchen.
We’d arrived at Terce, it seemed, from the sound of chanting emanating from the open door of the chapel. Archfedd and I availed ourselves of the wooden bench standing against one of the barn walls, and settled comfortably in the sunshine.
A wave of nausea washed over me, and I took out one of the early ripened apples from the pocket in my shift and bit into it. Small and sweet, it reminded me of a Beauty of Bath. Perhaps itwasa Beauty of Bath, or the ancestor of one. I’d filled my large pocket as we’d passed through the orchards, so I passed one to Archfedd.
We had a long wait. Whoever governed Brigid’s little community now must be a stickler for prayer. But at last, movement caught my eye, and I turned my head in time to see half a dozen drably dressed women emerge from the tiny chapel, heads down, hands clasped in front of them. Despite the plain, homespun headdresses they wore, Reaghan, who took after her father in her height, proved easy to pick out.
Archfedd jumped to her feet, face alight with excitement. “Reaghan!”
