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by Helen Hollick

  With a slight toss to her hair. “I was bored. A ride along the Wall suited me well.” As if that explained all!

  Arthur made no comment. For a moment more he stood, rocking gently against the raised leg, then suddenly, as if dismissing the thing, crossed to the bed pallet and lay down, placing his arms behind his head.

  Gweir hurried past Gwenhwyfar and began removing Arthur’s muddied boots. Finished, he glanced shyly at his Lord’s wife and asked, “Can I fetch you anything, Lady?”

  Answering for her, Arthur growled, “You can fetch a draught of wine, then get out.” He shut his eyes, scratched at an itch on his nose and pointed at Nessa. “Take her with you.”

  Nessa bridled, about to make a retort. Gwenhwyfar hastily placed a hand on her arm. “I need you no more this night, Nessa, thank you.”

  “And where,” she replied sharply, “am I supposed to go? Do I, then, sleep out in the rain, or share a blanket with one of them?” She tossed a pert gesture in the direction of the men’s tents.

  Arthur chuckled. “They’d like that.”

  Gweir cast nervously between master and mistress, unsure whether to speak, risked, his voice quivering, “If you please, there is a place within Lady Morgause’s tent.”

  Arthur stretched, yawned. “She has been complaining the single handmaid I granted her was not sufficient. You ought to be well received.”

  Nessa snorted. “I’d rather take the first offer!” Gathering her belongings she swept out after Gweir, saying unnecessarily loud “Escort me to the stores tent, I’ll make my bed there.”

  “There is no need to be so angry.”

  “No?” Arthur’s voice was heavy with sarcasm as he answered Gwenhwyfar. In one fluid movement he rose from the bed and crossed to her, to grip her arms roughly in his hands. “I find you wandering alone in the middle of nowhere, looking like a peasant-bred slut and you tell me not to be angry?”

  Gwenhwyfar looked at the rush matting on the floor, bit her lip. “I meant with Nessa. None of this is her fault.”

  Arthur strode across to the other side of the tent, arms waving, animated. “What if I had been an enemy? A missed band of Lot’s rebels or some young, hot-headed Saex boys? There are wolf packs aplenty roaming these hills. Blood-in-hell, Gwenhwyfar!” His raised his arms, hands spread. “You could have been torn to pieces by either one of them!” He paced around the small confine of the tent in frustration. “Going off by yourself was inexcusable. Bedwyr I’ve reprimanded severely; I am ashamed of the both of you.”

  Gwenhwyfar wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He is not to blame. I insisted on staying with the girl. He was not aware I had left the place.” She twirled her marriage ring around her finger, focusing on its flash of light as the gem caught in the dim reflection from the single lamp, trying hard not to cry.

  Arthur swung to face her, “Then he ought to have been aware!” He was struggling to keep his intense anger in check, the whole foolish escapade was so stupidly undertaken – so damned perilous. “I expected to return to Caer Luel, find you there with a welcome befitting the Supreme King, not come across you looking and smelling as some putrid swine-maiden.” He put his hand to his forehead, rubbed at the ache that was pounding behind his temples. “Mithras knows what Morgause is making of all this!”

  “Oh, I see!” Gwenhwyfar’s head snapped up, eyes flashing as many sparks as her ring. “Is that what bothers you? What Morgause thinks?”

  “Of course not!” Arthur bellowed, his anger intensifying.

  “Am I then a prisoner of yours?” Gwenhwyfar shouted. “Must I stay where you send me? Am I not allowed to ride or travel where I will? I was foolish to wander away alone I admit, but for the rest, I had adequate escort and this tract of land is now free of rebels or warring Saex, as you well know, otherwise you would never have ridden so far north.” She was tired, miserable, and in the wrong. All three of which made her stamp her foot and declare, “I am a free woman first, then your wife. If I wanted to leave this tent now, you could not stop me!”

  “Go on then, leave. Go, make your bed elsewhere!” Arthur strode to the tent opening, ripped it back, gestured elaborately with his hand for her to leave. “Go find another runaway slave to make a fool of yourself with!”

  “Gods, you disgust me!” Furious, Gwenhwyfar snatched up her cloak and flinging it around her shoulders stalked out, not looking at him, staring straight ahead at the dark crags that rose opposite beyond the wooden palisade of the marching camp.

  Arthur thrust the flap from his hand and threw himself on the bed, attempted to make himself comfortable, to sleep. Finding her unexpectedly as he had, out here along the Wall, wandering and distraught, had frightened him. The fear had materialised as anger, and anger was a thing difficult to diffuse. His heart was hammering, head pounding and his hand scratched by some object, Gwenhwyfar’s comb. Stamping to his feet, he returned to the opening. She was some yards outside the palisade, men hovering inside the fence, uncertain, agitated, not knowing what to do.

  He ran to the wooden posts, flung the comb at her retreating back. “Take your comb, you need something to improve your present state!”

  It was a good throw, striking her shoulder before it fell. Gwenhwyfar stooped for it almost as it landed, spun around and hurled it back. It fell short of the fence, lost somewhere among the long grass. “Keep it. Give it to Morgause.” She turned away from him, began striding in the direction of the crags, heedless of the cold drizzle.

  Arthur swore. “Damn you Gwenhwyfar, what makes you so bloody obstinate?” He went a few steps, realised the discomfort of soaking grass on bare feet, cursed, swung back to his tent and cursed again as he searched for his boots. Pulling one on, he hopped, pulling on the other; out the flap, through the gateway and after her. Finally, breathless, he caught her and grasped her arm, swinging her to a halt.

  Her hand swept out, aiming to slap him. He ducked, shouted the truth of his anger. “You ought not to have stayed with that girl!” He was yelling at her, his hands on her arms, shaking and shaking. “You are my wife, not some escaped slave’s physician.”

  “Was I to abandon her and the child then? Leave them to die unloved and afraid?”

  “They died anyway!” Holding her, refusing to let her go, shaking her, he stormed, “You could have caught some infection from her.” Calmer, gasping for breath, he released her, stood before her, face contorted in anguish and grief.

  “I was remembering our own little one. He was so beautiful, but he did not even take a first breath.” The tears fell down her cheeks.

  “Damn it, Cymraes.” Arthur said. Mutely, he again took her arms, but more gently, tenderly and possessively. “I could not lose you for the sake of some wretched slave girl. Bad enough that we lost our own child, and I feared for you then.” He stepped forward, bent his head, kissed her. “If you ever, ever, give me such cause for fear over your safety again, I swear I shall personally lock you in your chamber and leave you there until such time as I return to release you.”

  Before she could answer, he lifted her and carried her back down the slight rise and into their tent.

  LII

  Morgause seethed, although she took great care not to show it. That whelp riding ahead would gloat were she to show discomfort, and that satisfaction, under no circumstance, would she give him. Called himself King? Ha! He was not half the man his father, Uthr, had been. There was no time that she could remember not loathing Arthur, as a boy or man. Had she realised when he was a child what the man would become… ah, but what use was stewing over might-have-beens? The future was the important thing, if he intended to allow her a future. That Arthur meant her to be entombed as a prisoner, or to see her hang, she had no doubt – and unless she could coil a tendril tight around the Pendragon’s damn neck soon, then such a disagreeable future looked set. Had she only borne Uthr a son!

  Her hands were bound and her horse tethered to the one being ridden in close attendance; she rode straight-backed, regally and wi
th pride. Ah no, she would not let her anger give a public show.

  There were, however, some intriguing compensations. The rumours that Arthur and Gwenhwyfar were often quarrelling were true then. And what of those other tales that had filtered north? The deliberate drowning of his own child, for instance, and the murder of his mistress, the one who had been carrying his child? She would have to discover more for these were things she could use to her advantage.

  She glanced at her escort – guard – riding beside her. Were he not one of Arthur’s curs he would be a most pleasing young man to look upon: good chin, clear eyes, skilled hands. Torso and legs not too fat, nor too skinny. She liked flesh on her men, but not too much. A fat man, she had found, would wheeze and grunt in bed like an old foraging boar, but a man of all bone would have no stamina.

  The morning air smelt clean and fresh after the rain, the hills and trees wearing a tinge of autumn gold. A pleasant day considering her predicament. There was no hope of a rescue; those Picti turds – barbarian fools – had abandoned her to Arthur. So a few settlements had been burnt, a few women and children slaughtered – were they as important as herself? If Edda had lived, if Lot had not been such a coward, if those damn fool men had not wasted time in gathering the war-hosting together in the first place! There: the ifs and buts again.

  The horse beside her stumbled and she glanced again at its rider, intending some scathing remark, but a sudden instinctive inspiration changed the scorn to flattery. “You handle a horse well, young sir.”

  “I pride myself I am an accomplished rider.”

  Morgause lowered her sweeping lashes. “I would warrant any mare would respond well to your gentle, guiding hands.”

  Hueil’s smile was swaggering. He knew as well as she that their words were not directed at horses.

  January 464

  LIII

  Morgause ran her fingernail, as sharp as a wildcat’s claw, down the dark hairs of Hueil’s broad and muscular chest. Sweat glimmered there from the exertion of their lovemaking. She snuggled sensuously closer, appreciating the warmth and comfort of his body, for the governor’s palace at Caer Luel was a chill, damp place. She had never been one to lie alone at night, and saw no reason why being a prisoner of Arthur’s should alter her nocturnal requirements. Experienced in discretion – her husband, for certain, had remained unaware of her lovers – it had come easy for Hueil as Captain of the Guard, to be with her.

  A fine soldier, Hueil, with ability, skill and courage. One of Arthur’s most promising young officers. The son of a north-western lord, Hueil wanted to be a leader, not a follower, and such a man, a man who nursed ambition, fitted neatly into Morgause’s scheming palm. Neatly enough for the fingers slowly to close around, draw in deeper and ensnare.

  “I hear the Pendragon departed in a sour temper this morning,” she said, in her honey-sweet voice. “Have he and Gwenhwyfar quarrelled again?” She wound a curl of his abundant chest hair around her finger. Her hands were slender, smooth; the skin unroughened and unwrinkled by labour or age. She took great care of her hands, for you could tell a lot about a woman by the way she used her hands. “Lai, lai,” she sighed, “I really do not understand why he keeps her as wife. A woman with such a sour tongue should surely be better placed deep beneath the peat-bogs.”

  Hueil took her fingers, delicately kissed each tip. There was so much he wanted, was impatient to wait for, but this woman – this magnificent, beauteous, creature – was actually his, all his! Even the waiting for a kingdom to call his own paled into insignificance aside possessing the body of Morgause. He lightly bit her index finger, ran his hand up the smooth skin of her arm to fondle her swan’s neck. The luck of Fortuna had certainly smiled on him the day Arthur had ordered him to take personal charge of the Lady Morgause. He smirked privately to himself, though by the gods, the King had not meant quite so intimately personal!

  “I believe my Lady Pendragon is disgruntled over your place of lodging. The repercussions at the King putting you here in a comfortable room are even now still rippling.”

  Morgause snorted through her nose, indignant. Comfortable? Call this apology for a hovel, comfortable?

  Hueil chuckled maliciously. “It’s rumoured our King took the choice of attending this Episcopal meeting at Aquae Sulis in preference to enduring her ill humour.” He chortled louder, “For it is no secret how Arthur does love those men of the Church.” He chuckled again, added, “‘Tis the one thing I agree with him over, the pedantics of the Church.”

  Morgause smoothed his chest hair, thick spread over his muscles and reaching down to his navel, her words simultaneously smoothing his ruffled temper, which was as thick. “Your father’s devotion to the Christian God has embittered you, my lover.”

  Sliding an arm around her waist, Hueil drew her delightful nakedness to him. Ah, but she felt good! “My father has as much sense as a pack-mule. He is too tight shackled to the will of the Bishops. If he were to look beyond the walls of his stone-built church he would see that his land is disappearing under the heel of the Scotti settlers.”

  “One day,” Morgause kissed his shoulder, his neck, her lips cool against his flesh, “one day soon, he shall be gone and you shall rule in his stead.” Her lips moved to his chest. “And then you can take the title of king yourself.”

  “That day may yet be far off,” Hueil grunted miserably. “Long lasting health flourishes for my kin.”

  Morgause bent her head, delicately kissed each of his nipples. “For you, then,” she glanced up at him, her smile seductive, “I am glad.” Thought to herself, Fool man, there are many ways to ensure health takes a turn for the worst! “Then there is Arthur,” she said. “Would he allow you to rule as you wish, not as he commands?”

  She busied herself with her attention to his chest, keeping her face averted, lest he read her thoughts too closely. She had chosen well in Hueil, but must not push too far too soon. Subtle manipulation; implanted suggestions; words said in the right place at the right time. He had arrogance and ambition, qualities that easily overrode doubts of conscience. Hueil would not be a man to balk over trivialities such as loyalty and conscience when the eventual chance to take what he craved was offered.

  “When… I… am… King,” he said between kisses to the crown of her head, “none shall tell me what I can or cannot do.” He grasped her hair, forced her head up, placing his lips on hers in a prolonged kiss. “I shall need a queen, Morgause. A woman who would inspire men to take up arms with me against any who dared dispute my authority.” He kissed her again, possessive, with supremacy. “Any, who dare.”

  Morgause’s breasts brushed his skin as she shifted position. She had suckled no children, they had not lost their firm, youthful shape. “Will you find such a queen, think you?”

  With his knee he parted her thighs, wanting his pleasure. “Have I so far to look for one?”

  Morgause feigned a response to his clumsy, all too quickly finished coupling. He was a man too hurried and impatient, too full of his own self-importance to satisfy her desires. It did not matter. The mid-morning door guard provided those extra comforts a woman such as she required. It would not be so easy to find someone to secure her freedom. “You forget,” she whispered as he settled to sleep. “I am Arthur’s property now, to be disposed of as he bids. I am his prisoner. I cannot choose for myself.”

  Sleep was saturating him; through a yawn he answered, “Arthur would deny you are a prisoner.”

  “He insists I am his guest yet there are guards beyond my door and letters I write are read – as are those few I receive.” She lay beside him, her body moulding to his. “What do we do if Arthur will not allow me to be your queen?”

  Hueil’s breathing began to deepen, through drowsing semi-sleep he said, “Arthur will have no say in the matter, once I am proclaimed King of my own lands.”

  Morgause smiled. For all his usefulness, this young man was an arrogant fool. Did he think it would be so easy to defy Arthur? This thing must be c
arefully planned; as carefully executed. She shuddered slightly. That was not a word she cared to use, executed. Her life – death – hung close to the balance of the Pendragon’s whim. “I think, my lover,” she mused aloud, although Hueil was now asleep, “you must become a king very soon.”

  She lay silent as he slept, watching the shadows move slowly over the walls, across the floor, waiting for dawn to finger the cracks around the ill-fitting window shutters. All she need do was nurture her seedling implantation, and wait patiently for the harvesting.

  LIV

  Gwenhwyfar sat on a low wall surrounding a rectangular ornamental pool in the gardens of the Governor’s palace at Caer Luel. Gardens looked so sorrowful in winter, dead heads, decaying stalks and uncleared weeds; leaves greyed or browned by the nip of frost, no flowers, no blossom. The Governor’s Lady cared for the place as best she could but even her enthusiasm did not extend into the chill bite of mid-winter. It was January, and the garden was left to fend for itself until the first spring flowers should show themselves among the remnants of last year’s decayed splendour. The air smelt of the sea, for the wind was from the west. It was a mild day, a brief respite from the past weeks of a cold, easterly blow that had kept everyone indoors huddled beneath their cloaks and around the smoking fires. Gwenhwyfar had chilblains on her toes that itched, sore, of an evening. She needed new boots. She sighed and cast a handful of pebbles, scooped from the pathway into the thick, pea-broth scum of the water. She missed Arthur. She sighed again, deeper. Yet, when they were together they invariably quarrelled. He had not needed to attend this synod, could as easily have sent a representative, but na, he had wanted to swagger before the bishops, to show how clever he had been to subdue and lay claim to the north and avenge the death and destruction of Eboracum. Showing off she had called it. Hence the quarrel. They would not be impressed by his achievement, of course, but Arthur could never stay in one place for long, not within stone-built buildings, and not with a legitimate opportunity to be moving, doing. When he would return was any god’s guess.