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by Helen Hollick

  Gwenhwyfar was indignant. “I am as capable as you at collecting wood! Nessa, go inside, prepare what you can.” She gathered her sodden cloak tighter to her, pushed past Bedwyr and made for a storeroom abutting the height of the Wall. Roofed with turves, holes here and there had been patched and mended. A recently hung animal skin covered the doorway. Gwenhwyfar entered cautiously. Who had been here? Herdsman? Hunter? A trader? She ducked inside, wrinkling her nose at the mixture of undesirable odours. Animal dung, mustiness, stale smoke – and something else? Something she could not place. It took some moments for her eyes to grow used to the dimness; she waited, her hand resting on the door lintel. She could see now where a hearth-fire had been built and crossed to it; the ash was quite cold. No wood, save for a few unburnt branches lying around. She gathered them and began pulling at the heap of bracken stacked in one corner. It smelt none too pleasant, but would serve well enough for bedding with a cloak thrown over it.

  She was turning for the doorway when a sound in the other corner alerted her. Rats? She listened, studying the heaped pile of what appeared to be mildewed rags. Must have been rats. As she lifted the animal-skin over the doorway the sound came again, a low moan.

  Shouting for Bedwyr, Gwenhwyfar dropped her gathered bundle and ran to the corner, kicking the foul heap of stuff aside. Two frightened grey eyes, set in a dirty face swamped by a tangle of black, unwashed hair met hers.

  Bedwyr darted in, sword drawn, two of the escort hard at his heel.

  “Jesu,” he swore, “where did she come from?”

  Gwenhwyfar squatted, her hands held forward, palms down, showing peace and good intention. “Put up your sword, Bedwyr, she is frightened enough without that.”

  “Not until I have reason to believe she is not so frightened as to be hostile.”

  Gwenhwyfar clicked her tongue. “Do as I say. Even were she inclined to hurt us she is in no condition for it. The lass is in heavy labour.”

  The girl – Gwenhwyfar discovered later that she was barely ten and three summers of age – was curled in a ball, knees drawn up against the pain that swamped her abdomen. Her face contorted and now she was discovered, another whimper left her lips.

  “There is bracken, make it into bedding,” Gwenhwyfar ordered Bedwyr, “and I require a fire for light and warmth. You,” she nodded at one of the escort, “fetch Nessa. There is a spare cloak in my baggage, tell her to bring it.”

  Exchanging a shared expression of resignation, the men did as they were ordered. Gwenhwyfar persuaded the girl to let her feel her swollen body, silently counting as the contraction ceased and another followed.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  The girl was ragged and unkempt. Gwenhwyfar wondered when she had last eaten. Judging by the harsh, protruding bones, some time since.

  “Three days,” the girl gasped.

  “And the pains? When did they come?”

  “Las’ night,” the girl groaned, between chattering teeth. “I am so cold, Lady. I had nought more strength to light a fire with. Please,” she grabbed for Gwenhwyfar’s hand, clung tight. “Please stop this pain. I can bear no more of it!”

  Reassuringly Gwenhwyfar patted her hand. “It will not be long afore it ends.”

  Nessa thrust in, her tongue clicking with disapproval. “What in God’s good name is a mere child like this doing alone out here? And in her condition!”

  “Have water fetched,” Gwenhwyfar ordered, ignoring Nessa’s flood of agitated concern. She was a good handmaid, but inclined to prattle.

  Bedwyr himself brought the water, placed it beside the fire flickering into life through black, reeking, smoke. He touched Gwenhwyfar’s arm, indicated the door. “I must speak with you.”

  “Not now.”

  “Now!”

  About to make a sharp retort, Gwenhwyfar saw his firm, determined look. “Quickly then.” She withdrew with him, leaving Nessa to comfort the girl.

  Sheltering beneath the slight roof overhang, Bedwyr turned his back to the wet, placed a hand on the wattle wall, said, “I appreciate the lass needs help, but it is not for us to get involved here. She is of the Picti people, you can see that by her darkness, and she wears a slave collar.” The rain fell in a straight sheet of grey that all but obliterated the entrance gate on the far side of the rectangular courtyard. Gwenhwyfar had made no response.

  Irritated, Bedwyr continued, “Where she has run from I cannot imagine.”

  “Nor do I care,” Gwenhwyfar snapped. “She’s a child who is having a child, and she is very frightened.” Her fists were screwed tight, her body taut. “You men, you take your pleasures where you will, not concerning yourselves with the consequence of nine months hence…”

  Bedwyr held his hands in surrender. “Whoa! I am not at fault here!”

  Gwenhwyfar shuddered a release of breath, calming herself. “I am sorry. That girl is barely on the brink of womanhood, yet some man has bedded her, got her with child.”

  Bedwyr shrugged, unconcerned. “She is a slave.”

  “And that makes it all right?” When he did not answer Gwenhwyfar persisted, “Slaves have basic rights no less than any person high or lowborn. The right to be warm and fed. The right to remain a maiden until the body is grown.”

  Bedwyr placed a hand on her shoulder. “I agree with you, but we cannot stay long here. We must move on.”

  “We can go nowhere in this storm and night will soon be approaching. Are we not to camp here?” She smiled, patted his hand. “The babe ought to be safe born come morning.”

  The men ate a thin gruel of corn and wild fowl and the thunder raged, drowning the girl’s screams. The horses stamped uneasily and the men made the sign against evil. Night came, with the rain settling into a steady drizzle.

  An hour after full dark, Bedwyr came to find Gwenhwyfar, stood talking with her again beyond the door.

  “The birth is wrong, Bedwyr. I fear for babe and girl.”

  His patience was ebbing. This was all getting out of control. It was one thing to ride, merrymaking for a few miles along the Wall, but to be squatting here in this squalid midden-heap, exposing the Pendragon’s Lady to God alone knew what? “Look,” he said. “She’s an escaped slave. What manner of death faces her when she is returned to her master? Let me put a swift end to her now. She will feel no more pain and…”

  “You disgust me.” Gwenhwyfar turned on her heel and tossing the door-skin aside, ducked back into the hut.

  At a loss, Bedwyr ran his fingers through his rain-wet hair. He had a bad feeling growing in the pit of his belly about this nonsense, was beginning to wish he had never initiated this damn fool excursion.

  Why was Gwenhwyfar behaving so God-damned stubborn about a slave and her brat? This was not the Gwenhwyfar he had known as a boy in Less Britain, the practical woman who could cope calmly and reasonably with awkward situations. Slowly, shaking his head, Bedwyr retraced his steps through the mud to the men and their fire. He supposed this uncharacteristic behaviour was to do with the loss of her own small babe – but surely she would be over that? A child’s death was a common thing, expected almost, for babes were frail creatures. And she still had the other two boys, had Llacheu and Gwydre; how much loss could one small babe leave? He shrugged. Women were strange creatures. A pity though, he had always considered Gwenhwyfar different to the rest of them. He ducked into the smoky-damp warmth of the men’s shelter, shook his head. They would not be leaving this wretched place this side of the morrow’s morning.

  L

  Sweeping a hand through the crown of her hair, Gwenhwyfar raked the curls with her spread fingers. She felt unwashed and itchy; there was water in the burn beyond the gate, how long before she could cleanse herself of the grime from this squalid place? She sighed and hunkered down to her heels beside the babe that was once again whimpering, its knees drawn tight against its belly.

  Patiently, Nessa dribbled cooled, boiled water into its mouth. Within moments it spewed it back. The handmaid
shook her head. The child would not survive long.

  Glancing at the mother, sleeping fitfully now, Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes tight shut against threatening tears. The memories of her own last child, born close to death, were too new and vivid. The ragged skin draped across the door was thrown back and Bedwyr entered, his hair and shoulders glistening wet. “It’s raining again,” he said pointlessly. “I thought it would not hold off for long.” Resisting the impulse to cover his mouth and nose against the putrid stench that filled the place, he added, “I know not how you stand this foul air.”

  “The smell of death,” Gwenhwyfar answered despondently, without looking round. “You grow used to it.” She lifted the baby, cradling the pathetic thing in her arms, giving it some love as its brief, pain-ridden life fluttered and surrendered to what had to be. Her tears were there, but did not come. The terrible remembrance of her own recent loss had carried her beyond the point of weeping.

  She laid the dead child beside the fire, covering the little body with a rough-spun blanket. The mother stirred, her hollow eyes resting on the bundle. She had said little of who she was, where she had come from. Was not likely to say more; Gwenhwyfar did not wish to know.

  “Shall I take the babe? Bury it?” Bedwyr squatted before her, concerned; she looked so tired and sad. “We knew it would die,” he reminded her, as though he had spoken the words a thousand times. To himself he had, sitting before a smoking fire in the derelict guardroom where the men of the escort had said nought, although their uneasy thoughts showed plain.

  When Gwenhwyfar failed to answer he sighed, moved to gather the dead child and strode once more out into the rain. What was the use? She had been determined to stay from the outset and was hardly likely to ride away now, not until the thing was finished. He crossed himself, hoped the girl’s god would hurry and take her. Preferably before mid-morning; that would give them chance to cover a few more miles.

  Gwenhwyfar watched him go. Poor Bedwyr.

  “You are a good woman, Lady. May Christ give you his blessing.”

  The girl’s eyes had flickered open, she attempted a smile. Startled, Gwenhwyfar gasped, went to her. “You are a Christian?” The girl glanced at the fire, saw the bundle had been removed. In less than a whisper, said, “Jesu looked on me with His love, when he sent you.”

  “It was the storm that brought us to this place, not Christ.”

  The girl tried to laugh. She would have been pretty had it not been for the grime and pain-hollowed cheeks. “He brought the storm.” Her speech was slurring through a daze of the sickly stuff Gwenhwyfar had induced her to drink. “That one with you,” she managed, “though he is kind, he would not have stayed. He would have waited for the anger in the skies to pass then ridden on. After dispatching me first.”

  Gwenhwyfar could not deny it.

  “Why did Our Lord take my babe?” Her voice was so quiet barely a whisper.

  Gwenhwyfar did not know how to answer, it was a question she had asked for her own babe, but there was no longer a need to think of one. The girl could ask Christ for herself.

  Tutting beneath her breath at the senseless waste of life, Nessa covered the dead girl, said, “I’ll inform Lord Bedwyr,” and scuttled from the hut, hurrying through the rain, relieved that at last they could be gone from this foul place.

  Gwenhwyfar rose, her joints stiff, back aching, thinking and thinking of her own dead children; folded her arms around herself to stop the shivering. She had never forgotten plump little Amr, and the other son, born three months past. The memory of him came vividly to mind. His little crinkled face, blue tinged, his lungs unable to breathe life-giving air. She leant against the rough stonework of the Wall, which formed the rear of the room, rested her head against its cold, old dampness, closed her eyes and wept.

  Rain drummed on the turf roof finding its way through the gaps and holes, puddling on the earth floor. Thunder was again grumbling somewhere. Gwenhwyfar left the hut, stood beyond the shelter of the sloping roof, letting the cooling rain mingle with her hot tears. She could hear the men thankfully preparing to leave. They were talking and chuckling, gathering their belongings, saddling their horses. The north gate through the Wall was barred by a broken hurdle, beyond stretched the solitude of the rain-mizzled hills. Gwenhwyfar lifted the hurdle aside, intending to go only as far as the trickling burn. She did not notice the rain stinging against her skin as she splashed through the water, up the far bank and out onto the open moorland.

  Walking, stumbling, not caring where her feet trod, she was unaware of all but this sudden ache of intense misery. The pain of loss eases but never quite goes, is always there ready to return, unexpected, uninvited, at some potent reminder. The mile-castle on the Wall fell behind, hidden by the swirl of mist and rise of land, but Gwenhwyfar did not notice, did not care. Perhaps the chink of harness and thud of hooves were muffled by the rumbling of thunder or the rhythmical patter of rain. Whatever the reason, she did not hear. From nowhere, there before her riding out of the mist, came a host of men. She stopped, bewildered and confused. Someone laughed.

  “What master are you escaped from then?”

  “What master would care to keep such ragged property?”

  “I wager she’d look none so poor were we to strip her.”

  “It’s so long since I’ve seen a woman, any maid would look well, stripped!”

  Another voice, an officer. “What is the disturbance? Good God! My Lady Pendragon!”

  Gwenhwyfar crumpled to her knees.

  “Gwenhwyfar?” The familiar voice floated somewhere above her in the darkness. “Gwenhwyfar?” A hand patted her cheek, rubbed at her cold fingers. Her eyes flickered. Opened. She looked up into worried eyes.

  “Arthur?” she croaked, not believing it was he. Her hand felt for his body, rested against the thick, rain-wet leather of his tunic. “Arthur? Is it you?”

  “Aye.” He supported her shoulders and waist, allowed her to lean against him. A multitude of questions in his mind, hammering to be answered. “What, in the name of Mithras, are you doing out here alone, and in this sorry state? If someone has done harm to you I shall stretch his neck as long as the Wall for this!” He was angry, she could tell. More than angry.

  “I… it is a long story.” Gwenhwyfar scrabbled to her feet, clutching at her husband as the world whirled in a dizzying spin. When the mist cleared she saw men of the Artoriani clustered around, their faces grimed and weary from their march, expressions concerned. She looked down at herself, her skin, her clothes; touched the tangle of soaked, matted hair. What was she doing out here? Her mind swirled in a rush of confusion, as misted as these rain-sodden hills.

  Arthur caught at her arm, alarmed, pointed to her tunic. “This is blood!” Vaguely, she looked at it. Blood? The blood of life come and gone. The blood of death. He shook her. “What has happened, Cymraes? Tell me!”

  Another voice, female, caused him to glare above Gwenhwyfar’s bowed head.

  “So this is your Queen? Sa, I remember as a child she preferred the appearance of a midden slave.”

  Gwenhwyfar’s head ached, her temples throbbed, forehead pounded. Her neck felt as though it were bound by iron. It took great effort to lift her head. Who was this woman? Why was she riding with the Artoriani? Nausea bubbled in her throat, the moors misted and swayed, receded into hazy circles. She fought the faintness and became aware again of her appearance, of where and who she was. She stared at the woman cloaked in a hooded silver wolf-skin, and who, despite the rain and hardship of riding with an army on the march, appeared as having barely a lock of her barleycorn, fair hair out of place. Gwenhwyfar turned to her husband. “You did not hang her then.”

  Morgause tossed back her head and laughed, a sound that, had it been a scent, would have smelled of sickly, sweet perfume. “Hang me? Arthur could never hang me!”

  Lips pressed together, the Pendragon removed his cloak, swung it around Gwenhwyfar’s shoulders. He ignored Morgause although her taunts and commen
ts were becoming more difficult by the day to endure. But she was right, he could not hang her, or drown her or hack off her head.

  “Re-form the line of march,” he barked, propelling his wife, none so gently, towards his stallion.

  LI

  Warmed with hot broth and dressed in dry clothing, Gwenhwyfar silently suffered Nessa’s more than vociferous scolding. Listened instead to the drumming of the rain on the waterproofed skins of the tent. “We had no idea where to search for you. My poor Lord Bedwyr has received such a tongue-lashing from the King as was never heard! We thought he would strike the lad!”

  The comb in Nessa’s hand flew from her fingers as Gwenhwyfar swung sharply around, protesting. Bedwyr has done no wrong in this.

  Nessa sniffed loudly. “Lord Pendragon says the whole thing was a foolish venture. I am inclined to agree.” She began combing again, none so gently.

  Gwenhwyfar squirmed around a second time, the comb lodging in a tangle. “Shame on you! Do you think I’ve not noticed who you’ve recently curled up with?”

  “Tck! Keep yourself still, Lady, or I’ll be ripping your hair out.” Added tartly, “I could as easily sleep with him at Caer Luel, but oh no, he had to entice you out here to these rain-soaked hills.”

  Gwenhwyfar stamped to her feet, tearing the comb from a knot of hair and throwing it to the bed. “He did not entice me. I had as much of the decision.”

  “Then you acted with as much stupidity as he.” Arthur entered the tent, flinging his sodden cloak from his shoulders as he came. The boy Gweir, as ever, trotting behind, deftly retrieved it. “By the Bull, it’s wet out there!” Arthur went to the brazier, lifted one foot to rest it on a stool; stood with arms folded and that familiar half-squint to his eyes, regarding his wife.

  She returned his stare, determined not to be the first to glance away, unsure of what he was thinking or intending to say, aware she had been foolish – in all of it. But it had seemed such a lovely idea at the outset. He lifted one eyebrow higher, leant slight forward, giving question. Waiting answer.