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by Helen Hollick

  Gwenhwyfar hesitated before taking his hands, placed her fingers with care against his. His palms felt cool, but the grip, as he enclosed her hands in his own, firm, with the strength of the world in them. She smiled back at him, half remembering that long-forgotten episode of childhood. “Did I? Oh aye, I was so angry I threw a bucket of water over you.” She laughed, memories flooding.

  He helped her stand, pulling her upward, did not let her go immediately but held on, keeping her to him. She was slim, her figure, even after child-bearing, as slender and lithe as a willow. And beautiful. To Arthur, Gwenhwyfar would always be beautiful. He was not laughing with her. There was a pause. “I loved you then, Gwenhwyfar, as I love you now.”

  She withdrew her hands from his, wiped them down the front of her old work clothes. Nervously licking her lips she backed away a pace, startled to realise that she was trembling. Indicating her garden and attempting to change the subject, she said, “I have been here most of the afternoon but seem to have got so little accomplished.”

  “The flowers have bloomed early this year.”

  She glanced, surprised, at him. “You notice flowers?”

  Quiet. “I notice many things, Cymraes.” He was looking at her, noticing how the light touched the copper of her hair into gold, noticing the little lines of sadness that had etched themselves to the corners of her eyes. How unhappy those eyes seemed.

  Another long silence, Gwenhwyfar shivered. Unfastening his cloak Arthur swung it around her shoulders. “You are cold.”

  “A cloud covers the sun, the shade is chilly this time of year.”

  He stood so near, hands resting gently, possessive, on her shoulders. He smelt of horse and leather; the faint aroma of male sweat. Smelt as she remembered him.

  His face was close to hers. Her breath was quickening, coming in little gasps, her breasts rising and falling. She ducked her head against the kiss. He ran a finger under her chin tilting her head upward again, holding it there, fixing her gold-flecked, green eyes with his own penetrating brown stare. That touch, that one simple, thrilling touch burnt into her skin, setting her heart leaping, her stomach knotting.

  “Arthur, I… ”

  “Na, Gwenhwyfar, no words. No more hard words between us.” He eased her to him, bent his head and kissed her, a light, tender and loving kiss that barely brushed her lips. She caught her breath as he let her go briefly to move his body closer. Then he kissed her again, more insistent; long and soft, with a passion that was being held in tight check.

  Confused reaction whirled in her. She wanted to pull away, to slap his face, to scream all the curses she knew at him. Why then was she responding? Kissing him back? Why was her body taking aflame for him?

  A great weight hurtled at them, breaking the embrace. Cursing, Arthur staggered and attempting to keep his balance, let his wife go. With the support of his arms abruptly removed and the body of the massive hound clamouring against her side, Gwenhwyfar fell backwards. The young dog ecstatically straddled her, huge paws resting on her shoulders, whimpered delight.

  Helplessly laughing, she batted him away. “You great oaf!” she chided fending off the dog’s tongue from washing her face and ears. “Mind where you place those bear-paws!” Laughing. How long since she had last laughed? “You great beast, do not nip my ears!” Laughed louder as the pup playfully chewed at her dangling earrings.

  Arthur was far from amused. He gripped the dog’s collar and hauled the squirming animal away with a severe reprimand.

  “Do not scold him,” Gwenhwyfar pleaded, “he’s only a pup, he has not yet learnt manners.” Stroking the ecstatic dog’s broad head, her fingers moving to scratch at a soft spot between his forelegs, she asked, “What is his name?”

  “Cabal,” Arthur growled.

  A tall, muscular-built young man with short mouse-brown hair and brown-tanned skin was running up, his expression a mixture of anger and apprehension. Seeing the dog he spurted forward to grab the collar with his large hands as Arthur had done, profuse apologies spurring from his lips.

  “He broke away, Sir. Damned pup was in a frenzy to be with you!”

  Arthur growled something that Gwenhwyfar did not catch above the noise of Cabal’s struggling and whimpering to be free. “It is not fair to hold him back, Arthur,” Gwenhwyfar pleaded. “Let him greet us, then he will be satisfied.”

  Scowling, Arthur jerked his head, giving this new young man permission to let the dog loose. Gratefully, Ider released the absurd creature and Cabal again bounded against his master’s leg as he brushed past in his eagerness to reach Gwenhwyfar, sitting on the pathway.

  “Curse you, dog!” Arthur bellowed. “Will you never learn?”

  Gwenhwyfar hugged the hound to her, making a fuss of him. Aye, you knew where you were with animals. With his initial enthusiasm slackening, Cabal moved away from her and nosed lovingly back at Arthur, nudging his master’s hand. Grinning, Ider stepped forward to assist Gwenhwyfar to her feet. Their eyes met and held as she smiled up at him.

  The eldest son of a moderately wealthy wool merchant, Ider had been expected to follow his father, to carry on the trade when the time came. But he hated those stinking, oily fleeces; he wanted to fight, to join with the Pendragon, to become one of the Artoriani.

  His father had forbidden the dream. So he hated his father too. His mother, proud of her eldest son, had secretly purchased a battered sword and encouraged him to join Eboracum’s militia. Both had taken a beating for that. Two winters past, she had died. There was nothing more for Ider to care for, not even his brother now. He had cared for nothing and no one – until this moment, when his eyes met with the sparkle of Gwenhwyfar’s.

  He felt a surging leap deep inside him, something far stronger than the love a mother gave, something warm in the pit of his stomach. She was beautiful, Gwenhwyfar. Ider fell in love with her at that first exchange of smiling eyes.

  Gwenhwyfar saw it, recognised it. She looked away from him, began to brush ineffectually at her dusty skirts with her hands. “I do not know you.” Feeling flattered, flustered, she had to say something. “Are you new to my husband’s service?”

  “Aye, my Lady.” Ider had learnt a long time since to hide hurt and doubt by play-acting. By making everything seem larger than it really was the pain inside grew less. “I am Ider, I brought word of attack upon Eboracum to the Pendragon.” A grin of pride spread across his square, firm, face.

  Gwenhwyfar smiled warmly at him. She liked him, a lad probably away from home for the first time. “My husband must be impressed with you if he trusts his dog to your keeping.” She meant her words, for Arthur was very possessive of his animals. And his family, when he had the time for them.

  Ider swelled with a glow of pleasure and pride at her praise. “He’s a grand dog,” he replied, still grinning. “I’ve always wanted a dog, but my father wouldn’t allow it.”

  “You were told to keep him back,” Arthur chided, realising it was time he interrupted this exchange. “See to it you keep my orders in future.”

  Head slightly bowed, Ider mumbled an apology.

  “Take the dog to the kitchens,” Arthur added, dismissing them both. “A bone or something will set his mind occupied on his belly.”

  Ider threaded his fingers through the dog’s collar, had gone a few paces when Arthur caught up with him, took hold of his shoulder.

  “And I advise you, lad, if you want to stay in my service, to curb your inclination for over-friendly conversation with my wife.”

  Ider saluted smartly. “Aye, Sir.” Walked away with a jaunty stride, but not before tossing a last, broad smile at Gwenhwyfar.

  “He seems a good lad,” she observed, watching him persuade Cabal to leave with him. Had Arthur seen that look of newborn devotion in his eyes?

  “Raw and green,” Arthur remarked, “but he will improve. He has guts and determination, qualities I need in my men.”

  He had not seen. She relaxed, forgot Ider when Arthur said, “Gwenhwyfar… ” He
made to touch her, but she turned quickly away, bending to gather her gardening tools. Arthur took them from her and when she objected, asked, “Where do they go?”

  She pointed along the path to a lean-to shed built against the rear of one of the granaries. He followed her into it, placed the stuff on to a shelf.

  “Have you greeted Enniaun?” she asked, ducking away from his hand when he reached towards her. “Of course you have, you would not enter a Caer without first seeking its Lord.” She retreated into the sunlight, began walking in the direction of her brother’s Hall, taking long strides and talking all the while, her hands holding the cloak folded around herself, defensive and protective.

  “My brother was pleased to see you, I would wager. He has two sons now, did you know? My other brothers have their own established territories. They ride here often enough, when the hunting brings them this way -which is why Dogmail is here. It will be good to have the Hall filled this evening with the men of your Artoriani. Where are you intending to make camp? There is still the remains of the Roman fortress of course, but there is also a good meadow by the river, ideal for men and horses. You are welcome to that.”

  Following in her wake, Arthur lengthened his stride and caught hold of her arm, swinging her pace and speech to a halt. “Whoa! What is this? Idle conversation to keep me at bay? Hie, it is me, Arthur.” He flapped his hand, pointing at himself. “Tck,” he twitched the corner of his mouth, searching for words. He had hold of both her shoulders. “I did not ride all this way just to catch up on family news.”

  Gwenhwyfar studied his left hand, focusing on a battered gold band with the image of a dragon imprinted on it. Uthr had given him that ring when he had been a boy. There were so many things she ought to say; good, bad, angry. Loving things. Where to begin? She shrugged him off, walked on. “Family news is important to the family.”

  “Aye. If you are lucky enough to have a family that is worth its importance.”

  A spark of tawny-gold defiance flashed in her eye, her head lifting. “Is yours not important then?”

  Arthur backed off a pace, his hands spread, held submissive. “Not the family on my side of the shield, na. Ambrosius, my mother, neither have love for me, nor I for them.” He lowered his hands, steadfastly gazing at her. “There are only three who mean more to me than sun, moon, sea and sky.”

  Fighting pricking tears, Gwenhwyfar was relieved when they rounded the corner of the granary and the Hall came into sight. She pointed, eager. “Look! Enniaun is ready to give formal greeting.” She walked on, faster, Arthur a pace behind, his fingers thrusting deep though the leather strap of his baldric slung aslant across his chest.

  “Is that Geraint?” she asked, seeking those she knew among the men of Arthur’s escort. “He has lost weight; have you not been feeding him? I do not see Cei. Is he not with you?”

  Terse. “Na, he is not with me.”

  Glancing towards the abrupt answer, Gwenhwyfar said no more.

  People of the Caer and settlement were crowding to gather outside the Hall, eager to share in the welcome of visitors, their excited voices a rising babble as the King and Gwenhwyfar approached.

  Enniaun’s personal guard were drawn up in two columns on either side of the Hall doors, their iron-shod spears held tip downmost in the formal greeting of friendship. At the apex stood Enniaun and his royal family of Gwynedd, Teleri his wife, herself a princess from the north-west, and their two young sons, Catwalaun and Owain. Their daughter, almost the same age as Llacheu, was with Gwydre, holding his hand, ordering him to stand straight and not fidget.

  Before the Hall, spears also tip down, stood the Artoriani wearing parade armour and standing ranked with shoulders squared behind the two standard bearers who held the fluttering Red Dragon and Blue Turma’s own banner. An impression of undefeatable strength and fierce pride. Gwenhwyfar smiled at Arthur. “How far beyond the Caer did you make halt to clean up and change?”

  Arthur grinned back at her. “A few miles. You should have seen us before, the grime was hand-span thick!”

  The waiting Artoriani rustled, a hint of movement, aware of the nearing presence of their King and his Queen. Geraint barked an order; as one, they raised their spears, bringing the wooden shafts clashing, once, across their shields in salute.

  “Gwenhwyfar. There are things we must discuss.”

  “What? Now?” They were approaching Enniaun. Not here! Must she face him and the memory of these past months before all these watching eyes? They were walking close but not touching. She quickened her stride.

  “Soon. When I have finished talking with your brother.” They mounted the three wooden steps.

  Enniaun came forward, unaware of his sister’s panic or the vast emptiness welling inside Arthur at the line of rebuffs that he seemed to be receiving from her. The Lord of Gwynedd acknowledged his Supreme King with bended head and knee then sprang to embrace him in friendship.

  “I greet you Arthur, King, kindred and friend. Welcome to my Hall, welcome to Gwynedd.”

  “Croeso! Welcome!” The shout, in a mixture of the British and Latin tongues was taken up with enthusiasm by the increasing number of gathered onlookers. A cheering and shouting that was surely heard as far as the distant mountains and the snow-tipped Yr Wyddfa. The Artoriani answered with a wordless shout, Aye-eeeee, that rang throughout the Caer and was caught by the sea wind, tossed high to the clouds and the circling, shrilling gulls.

  Teleri was offering the gold chalice of welcome. Arthur took it and drank deep, passed it first to Enniaun then back to Teleri and last to Gwenhwyfar. To each he spoke different words.

  To Enniaun; “May our hunting follow the same path, and be good.”

  To Teleri; “May your house prosper and your sons and daughters bring you pride and sons and daughters of their own.”

  To Gwenhwyfar; “May the ceasing of the storm return the sun to your heart.”

  Gwenhwyfar took the chalice between both hands and sipped. She was about to pass it back to her husband with a similar traditional reply, as her brother and Teleri had done, but on impulse changed her mind. Tipping the thing, she spilt a little onto the wooden step as an offering for the old gods, and said, “The night has been long and it will come again, but between each blackness will always come the light of day.” She smiled, a little shy, at Arthur, the greeting spreading suddenly in genuine welcome from her lips to her eyes, coming truly from her heart as she realised how much she had missed him.

  Arthur took the chalice from her, his fingers briefly brushing hers, their eyes meeting and at last holding. She did not look away, did not remove her hands from his touch. Were it not that he would grossly offend the Caer and its Lord, Arthur would have swept her to the privacy of her chamber and claimed her there and then. But he could not. Instead, he spoke for her ears alone to hear, “Mithras, Cymraes, you are more beautiful than a summer’s dawn the day after battle.” He swung away from her then, sending the chalice down to Geraint and the men, the vessel passing along the line, pausing to be refilled and drunk, a multitude of greetings and thanks flowing with that welcoming wine.

  XXVIII

  “I hear you stay only the one night. You come a long distance for such a brief visit.” Gwenhwyfar sat on the riverbank, arms hugging drawn-up knees. It was a place she often came to of an evening, a quiet sanctuary away from the day-long bustle of the Caer. A peaceful place, where she could think.

  Arthur stood a few yards away, tossing pebbles, skimming them over the surface of the calm river. The tide was in, the water rode high.

  “I am needed in the north, Cei is already marching with the Artoriani. I wish to join them as soon as possible, if I delay Lot’s rabble may disperse homeward. Once they are scattered among those lonely hills…” He skimmed two stones together, stooped to pick up another handful. He need not add any more; Gwenhwyfar knew well enough the tactics of campaign. “Lot is sure to know we are coming, I wager that while his men are drunk on success they will lust after a confro
ntation with me.” He lobbed the last pebble, watched it sink and seated himself on the bank, leaning back on his hands, legs stretched before him.

  A three-quarter moon was rising against the blue-black evening sky, giving strength to the fading light. A flighty wind was whispering through the trees on the opposite bank and behind, the camp fires of the Artoriani winked like stars against the darkening rise of the hill. Men’s voices were a distant murmur of talk and laughter: the soft settling of a spring night with its heady scent of day-warmed new grass, damp earth and awakening blossom.

  Gwenhwyfar asked, “Has he come south to entice you into a fight?”

  “Lot? I should think so. The synod was meeting there, but why else bother with Eboracum? Since the river burst its banks yet again with that high tide last year, the place has been all but dead. Too many lost their trade and business to the mud, it is a skeleton of a town, a few die-hards like Ider’s father stay on; for the rest, the place will soon be left to the Saex settlers. The English seem indifferent to the temperament of water levels.” He snorted a chuckle of amusement. “The men of the Church close their eyes to the decline of the towns, but it seems their God has other plans.”

  “You accept Lot’s challenge then?”

  Lot? Arthur mused. Not Lot, Morgause. He rolled onto his stomach. Plucking a stalk of grass, began chewing it, sucking the sweet spring taste from its stem. “When have I turned down a challenge?” He cast the flattened stalk aside, rolled again to lie on his back, lacing his fingers behind his head to gaze up at the first stars. “It would be unwise to ignore this. A few of Vortigern’s Saex who stayed in the north after attacking your da’s old stronghold may have joined with Lot. Kindred of Hengest.”

  And Winifred, he thought. She wishes me, the Pendragon, dead, And she is Hengest’s granddaughter. Coincidental of course.

  As if reading his mind, Gwenhwyfar asked, “Has Winifred a hand in that?”