nothing else suited for you.
A bishopric would sit well. The duties are demanding, I grant, but mentally,
not,” he paused, licked his lips, tried so hard not to look at his son’s deformed
leg, “not physically.”
Wanting to sit down himself, to take the weight from the pain that ushered
from his hip to knee, Cadwy forced himself not to glance for a stool. His father
was a good man, had a weight of problems as heavy as the drag of his own
lame leg, had only the best of intentions at heart, but always, always where
Cadwy was concerned, the wrong intentions. He did not understand, could not
see beyond this wooden crutch and dragging leg that Cadwy was in all other
respects a normal man with the desires and ambitions of any young male of ten
and nine years.
Slowly, measuring his words, Cadwy tried to explain, tried to show his view
of this thing without hurting or wounding his father’s pride. “It is an honour to
be recommended as taking the new-vacant position of Bishop of Aquae Sulis,
Father, and I thank you for your concern in putting my name forward, but…”
His eyes sought his father’s, failed to hold them, instead, he took a clumsy step
forward, “But I cannot give myself to a life as a priest. I want a wife, children.”
His expression was pleading, begging, “A grandson for you.”
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 9
The hurt came deeper, more wounding when his father bitterly laughed,
stood, and turned away from him.
Fighting tears, tears that would not become a lad of his age, Cadwy said
through a choking throat, “As a priest, even as an exalted bishop, I could never
find a way to prove to you, Father, that despite my lameness I am, inside, as
much a man as any other.”
He half-held his hand, pleading. Ambrosius did not turn back. Cadwy made for
the door, his crutch loud tapping on the flagstone floor, his left boot dragging.
As he reached the door, Ambrosius spoke, his voice taught, rasping, emotion
raw. “Along but one path could I have found pride in you, along a path to God.
Reject that route and you reject me.”
No choices, no regrets. “Allow me to live my life as I choose, Father, or
equally, reject me.”
There came no answer, no movement, only a solid-turned back. Cadwy
opened the door, shuffled through, closed it silently behind, not seeing his
father’s disappointed misery.
Ambrosius sank to his knees, clasped his hands in prayer. Why , he questioned,
why does naught come easy for me? I try, I give my heart and soul into doing what I
believe is right, yet each time, along every path, around every corner, I meet failure.
Bitterly, he moaned, bowed his head. Why could he not be strong, successful,
obeyed, and respected like his elder brother Uthr had been? Why could he not
achieve, as the son, his nephew Arthur, seemed always to achieve?
Why, for Emrys, as his British given name had been, did everything always
take a wrong turn?
Nineteen
It was raining when Cadwy rode up the steep, cobbled lane into Caer
Cadan. His twisted leg was aching horribly, his teeth clenched to ignore the
torturing stabs that seemed to lance his entire body.
The past days had dragged through the sullen anger of an interminable
week of glowering half politenesses and barely veiled displeasure. The deci-
sion to come here to Caer Cadan had formed yester eve, an hour or so after
the messenger had ridden in. Gwenhwyfar was taken seriously ill, he had told
Ambrosius, was dying.
“ I will go ,” Cadwy had offered, “ I will see how she fares. ”
His father had responded with a sharp, instant forbidding of no, and there
had come another bitter quarrel.
Was he to be kept prisoner then? Cadwy had demanded, shuttered away,
snared, because he would not do as his father bid? In anger, Cadwy had saddled
his horse and left his father’s household with no word of farewell. He would
see the queen for himself, could not believe her life was so desperately near its
end.
A bishopric would sit well. The duties are demanding, I grant, but mentally,
not,” he paused, licked his lips, tried so hard not to look at his son’s deformed
leg, “not physically.”
Wanting to sit down himself, to take the weight from the pain that ushered
from his hip to knee, Cadwy forced himself not to glance for a stool. His father
was a good man, had a weight of problems as heavy as the drag of his own
lame leg, had only the best of intentions at heart, but always, always where
Cadwy was concerned, the wrong intentions. He did not understand, could not
see beyond this wooden crutch and dragging leg that Cadwy was in all other
respects a normal man with the desires and ambitions of any young male of ten
and nine years.
Slowly, measuring his words, Cadwy tried to explain, tried to show his view
of this thing without hurting or wounding his father’s pride. “It is an honour to
be recommended as taking the new-vacant position of Bishop of Aquae Sulis,
Father, and I thank you for your concern in putting my name forward, but…”
His eyes sought his father’s, failed to hold them, instead, he took a clumsy step
forward, “But I cannot give myself to a life as a priest. I want a wife, children.”
His expression was pleading, begging, “A grandson for you.”
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 9
The hurt came deeper, more wounding when his father bitterly laughed,
stood, and turned away from him.
Fighting tears, tears that would not become a lad of his age, Cadwy said
through a choking throat, “As a priest, even as an exalted bishop, I could never
find a way to prove to you, Father, that despite my lameness I am, inside, as
much a man as any other.”
He half-held his hand, pleading. Ambrosius did not turn back. Cadwy made for
the door, his crutch loud tapping on the flagstone floor, his left boot dragging.
As he reached the door, Ambrosius spoke, his voice taught, rasping, emotion
raw. “Along but one path could I have found pride in you, along a path to God.
Reject that route and you reject me.”
No choices, no regrets. “Allow me to live my life as I choose, Father, or
equally, reject me.”
There came no answer, no movement, only a solid-turned back. Cadwy
opened the door, shuffled through, closed it silently behind, not seeing his
father’s disappointed misery.
Ambrosius sank to his knees, clasped his hands in prayer. Why , he questioned,
why does naught come easy for me? I try, I give my heart and soul into doing what I
believe is right, yet each time, along every path, around every corner, I meet failure.
Bitterly, he moaned, bowed his head. Why could he not be strong, successful,
obeyed, and respected like his elder brother Uthr had been? Why could he not
achieve, as the son, his nephew Arthur, seemed always to achieve?
Why, for Emrys, as his British given name had been, did everything always
take a wrong turn?
Nineteen
It was raining when Cadwy rode up the steep, cobbled lane into Caer
Cadan. His twisted leg was aching horribly, his teeth clenched to ignore the
torturing stabs that seemed to lance his entire body.
The past days had dragged through the sullen anger of an interminable
week of glowering half politenesses and barely veiled displeasure. The deci-
sion to come here to Caer Cadan had formed yester eve, an hour or so after
the messenger had ridden in. Gwenhwyfar was taken seriously ill, he had told
Ambrosius, was dying.
“ I will go ,” Cadwy had offered, “ I will see how she fares. ”
His father had responded with a sharp, instant forbidding of no, and there
had come another bitter quarrel.
Was he to be kept prisoner then? Cadwy had demanded, shuttered away,
snared, because he would not do as his father bid? In anger, Cadwy had saddled
his horse and left his father’s household with no word of farewell. He would
see the queen for himself, could not believe her life was so desperately near its
end.
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