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Authors: Helen Hollick
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stepfather. Cadwy felt no love for this Christian God who was supposed to
offer love and comfort. Where was the comfort in knowing your earthly father
despised you?
The nativity, an adaptation of the pagan celebration of life and rebirth.
Winifred, as the Bishop finished his monotonous diatribe at last, felt a tear
4 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k
slide down her cheek. All she had fought for, lied, cheated and even killed for.
All she had built and sown and harvested. All had been for Cerdic. He had
to become king after Arthur, for without him as supreme, what was left for
herself? Nothing, save the loneliness of an unwanted, set-aside ex-wife.
Ambrosius mouthed the words of the chant, reciting by rote of habit. What
was there for him after he had taken what was offered, now that Arthur was
away, unlikely to come back? If there was no one to pass his gain to, no one
to ensure the continuation of all he had worked and struggled to achieve, what
was the point of gaining it?
The Bishop offered the Blessing, took up his mitre and crosier, and, with his
retinue pacing in solemn splendour, proceeded down the central aisle, his soft
doeskin boots scuffing on the bright colouring of the intricate, patterned mosaic
flooring. He had his own thoughts, his own ambitions.
The position of archbishop had never been refilled after the tragic massacre
of so many of the Church a few years past at Eboracum. Both Ambrosius
Aurelianus and the Lady Winifred were sure to have been impressed by the
splendid sermon of his today. He smiled benignly at the poorer people of his
flock huddled towards the rear of the grand church. Archbishop. The title sat
well in his ambitious thoughts.
Thirteen
February 469
It was raining. Not the soft drizzle of a British early springtime
shower, but a harsh, wind-blustering swathe of winter, stinging needles that
pulsed in from the wave-tossed river. Juliomagus was sodden. Water cascaded
from low-hung eaves and cracked, broken gutters. The street drains, unre-
paired for years, were blocked beyond use; consequently the mud seethed with
sewage, foetid and stinking. The heavy wheels of ox-carts became stuck; people
were truculent and irritable as they hurried about their business, heads dipped,
shoulders hunched. At the Forum, where the market traders had set their stalls,
requirements were bartered for quickly, no one caring to browse or chat.
Arthur, however, was in no hurry. Several citizens, scuttling, bent against
the rain, knocked into him, cursed as he strolled along the Via Apollo. He
was talking, hands animated, to Bedwyr, expressing personal preference for the
town’s selection of wines. In turn, Bedwyr was challenging his cousin’s choice,
both men heedless of the discomfort of rain.
“The Red Bull,” Bedwyr insisted, “serves the best Greek. Your nomination
of the Grape cannot hold a candle to it!”
“Nonsense, the Grape’s wine is stored the better, their amphorae are kept in
cool cellars, the Bull’s stores are nigh on in full sun!”
Bedwyr was having none of it. He pointed at the sky. “Sun? Do they get sun
in this dull place?” The disagreement colourfully continued as they strolled the
length of the next street and around the corner. They had reached the eastern
corner of the Forum.
Normally crowded, the wide, square market-place was woefully empty.
Traders’ stalls dripped sorrowfully, displayed wares looking soggy and unex-
citing. Foodstuffs, clothes, and the like were ruined, although the sellers would
undoubtedly find some way of making a financial gain.
“The Grape has one unquestionable advantage though, cousin!”
“Which is?” Bedwyr queried.
4 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k
“The dark-eyed Diana!”
Bedwyr laughed. Aye, he had to concede that point. Diana was indeed a
most enticing serving lass.
The Pendragon’s eyes were skimming across the expanse of the mud-puddled,
cobbled square, roving to the opposite side in the
offer love and comfort. Where was the comfort in knowing your earthly father
despised you?
The nativity, an adaptation of the pagan celebration of life and rebirth.
Winifred, as the Bishop finished his monotonous diatribe at last, felt a tear
4 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k
slide down her cheek. All she had fought for, lied, cheated and even killed for.
All she had built and sown and harvested. All had been for Cerdic. He had
to become king after Arthur, for without him as supreme, what was left for
herself? Nothing, save the loneliness of an unwanted, set-aside ex-wife.
Ambrosius mouthed the words of the chant, reciting by rote of habit. What
was there for him after he had taken what was offered, now that Arthur was
away, unlikely to come back? If there was no one to pass his gain to, no one
to ensure the continuation of all he had worked and struggled to achieve, what
was the point of gaining it?
The Bishop offered the Blessing, took up his mitre and crosier, and, with his
retinue pacing in solemn splendour, proceeded down the central aisle, his soft
doeskin boots scuffing on the bright colouring of the intricate, patterned mosaic
flooring. He had his own thoughts, his own ambitions.
The position of archbishop had never been refilled after the tragic massacre
of so many of the Church a few years past at Eboracum. Both Ambrosius
Aurelianus and the Lady Winifred were sure to have been impressed by the
splendid sermon of his today. He smiled benignly at the poorer people of his
flock huddled towards the rear of the grand church. Archbishop. The title sat
well in his ambitious thoughts.
Thirteen
February 469
It was raining. Not the soft drizzle of a British early springtime
shower, but a harsh, wind-blustering swathe of winter, stinging needles that
pulsed in from the wave-tossed river. Juliomagus was sodden. Water cascaded
from low-hung eaves and cracked, broken gutters. The street drains, unre-
paired for years, were blocked beyond use; consequently the mud seethed with
sewage, foetid and stinking. The heavy wheels of ox-carts became stuck; people
were truculent and irritable as they hurried about their business, heads dipped,
shoulders hunched. At the Forum, where the market traders had set their stalls,
requirements were bartered for quickly, no one caring to browse or chat.
Arthur, however, was in no hurry. Several citizens, scuttling, bent against
the rain, knocked into him, cursed as he strolled along the Via Apollo. He
was talking, hands animated, to Bedwyr, expressing personal preference for the
town’s selection of wines. In turn, Bedwyr was challenging his cousin’s choice,
both men heedless of the discomfort of rain.
“The Red Bull,” Bedwyr insisted, “serves the best Greek. Your nomination
of the Grape cannot hold a candle to it!”
“Nonsense, the Grape’s wine is stored the better, their amphorae are kept in
cool cellars, the Bull’s stores are nigh on in full sun!”
Bedwyr was having none of it. He pointed at the sky. “Sun? Do they get sun
in this dull place?” The disagreement colourfully continued as they strolled the
length of the next street and around the corner. They had reached the eastern
corner of the Forum.
Normally crowded, the wide, square market-place was woefully empty.
Traders’ stalls dripped sorrowfully, displayed wares looking soggy and unex-
citing. Foodstuffs, clothes, and the like were ruined, although the sellers would
undoubtedly find some way of making a financial gain.
“The Grape has one unquestionable advantage though, cousin!”
“Which is?” Bedwyr queried.
4 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k
“The dark-eyed Diana!”
Bedwyr laughed. Aye, he had to concede that point. Diana was indeed a
most enticing serving lass.
The Pendragon’s eyes were skimming across the expanse of the mud-puddled,
cobbled square, roving to the opposite side in the
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