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by Helen Hollick

  “What now?” Arthur grumbled. “Surely they have not over-drunk already?” He signalled to a senior officer to investigate the disturbance, but like the rush of fire among dry tinder the argument was already escalating. More men were rising, benches were knocked, a scuffle began. One man, arms flailing, went down and an uproar burst through the Hall. Others were springing up, tables tipped, scattering dishes and food and wine. Dogs began to bark, joyfully leaping to devour the unexpected feast scattered to the tessellated floor. A servant screamed.

  Arthur hurled from his seat bellowing for peace. Angry, joined by several officers, he stormed the distance between his own table and the fight, wading into the group of excited young men pushing and shoving at each other. His hand clamped on a tunic collar and he brought Bedwyr, fists swinging, face red, to his feet. Another officer hauled at a second lad, Ider.

  On the floor, glowering and attempting to stem a bloodied nose, sprawled Hueil.

  “I will have no fighting in my presence!” Arthur did not shout; his wrath was obvious without the need of a raised voice. His eyes, narrowed in fierce authority, swept from one offender to the other. “If you have a grievance then settle it in private, outside!”

  “He spreads insults against my Lady Gwenhwyfar like muck over a farm field!” Ider blurted, furious, pointing an accusing finger at Hueil.

  Bedwyr trod heavily on his foot. “Hush, you fool!”

  Ider reddened, but it was too late, the words were out.

  Arthur released Bedwyr, his grasping fingers slowly uncurling, extended his hand low for Hueil to take, hauled the stocky young man to his feet.

  In his one and twenty summers, Hueil had gathered enough grievance to his shoulders for a man twice that age. Arthur had seen his potential, a promising young officer whose strengths of determination, ability and natural empathy with a horse were all qualities needed for the Artoriani. But Hueil had soured, his ambition turning to bitterness. The Pendragon tolerated his arrogance because there was just reason behind that sourness, but he was disappointed in the lad, knew the time would soon come to find some excuse to be rid of him. For a young man, eager and capable in a fight, it must gall like ill-fitting harness to a plough team to have a father who refused to see the creeping danger of settlers encroaching his land. A Godly man, Hueil’s father, Caw, trusted in the Lord for deliverance. Hueil, sensibly in Arthur’s eye, placed his trust more to a sword’s edge. It was plain evident that unless the father took to defence soon his land would be swamped by Scotti settlers, and Hueil would be left with next to naught when the time came to step into Caw’s boots. Arthur remembered well the years of frustration serving under Vortigern, years of waiting for the right opportunity to take what he wanted, and because he remembered, had sympathised with this other young man. Hueil had not the forbearance that Arthur had shown. His was a gnawing impatience, extending into manifold grievances and quick anger. Arthur wondered for how much longer the lad would wait on his father. Until an excuse to take his birthright by force presented itself?

  Experience, and a shrewd ability to judge a man’s character, showed the Pendragon that one so quick to draw a blade and slow to concede defeat could now prove dangerous. Hueil’s was always one of the strongest voices when swearing loyalty, his was the most savage of swords in battle. Yet for all that, and the understanding behind the reasons, Arthur mistrusted him, and this winter at Caer Luel had strengthened those minor, niggling suspicions into firm fact. Arthur knew of Hueil’s bedding with Morgause. He liked it not, but was astute enough to reckon it easier to watch someone already being watched. As things stood, Hueil posed only a small threat for he had few friends. Aside, Arthur wagered, if he gave Morgause enough rope, happen she would fashion her own noose. If it were Hueil who was foolish enough to provide her with it then that was his misfortune.

  That Morgause was in some way responsible for this quarrel, Arthur had no doubt – the woman was behind every disagreement, every grumble and sour word. By right, she ought not to be feasting in this hall, but as his “guest” how could she not attend? By right, she should be dead alongside her British husband and Picti lover! But those eastern Picti of Caledonia were not quite as settled as Arthur liked to make out, and while they alone would not have the men for many a season to go against him again, he could not give cause for the tribal clans to unite. Hanging a priestess of the Mother Goddess might give them cause to pitch their spears together, and what Morgause and Lot had failed to accomplish he could achieve with one hanging – an achievement he would rather not aim for. Aye well, that was his excuse. He knew it went deeper than that.

  “You could never execute me, Arthur,” she had said as the Picti had handed her over into his care – his care mark you, they had made it quite clear that she was not to be harmed. “I belonged to your father. You would never willingly destroy something that he had loved.”

  Arthur glanced at her, sitting three places from Gwenhwyfar, calmly eating, dressed in fine, bright-dyed silk. She was a beautiful woman, Morgause. Nearing her late thirties, still with the figure and looks of a girl. Some of it was painted beauty, those heavily lined eyes of kohl and the lead and chalk powder to the face, but Morgause would always be as a Venus, drawing men around her as moths to the flame. Batting their wings against the heat, only to fall scorched and broken. He ought to make an end of her, toss her over the battlements, leave her for the wolves or pitch her, bound hand and foot, into the peat bogs. But he could not. He could not in cold blood murder her – Arthur had a shrewd realisation that in death, Morgause would haunt him more potently than when she was alive and under his constant watch. Aside, it brought him some small, pleasurable revenge knowing she feared his intentions, even if that pleasure was personal and probably most unwise. He held the leash secured tight around her pretty, swan-white neck and he could pull that noose tighter, when and where he wanted. Except he could not admit, even to himself, that to tighten the noose fully would be impossible.

  “What is all this?” Arthur snapped, taking his attention from Morgause. “If you have a thing to say, Hueil, then say it openly. To me.”

  Hueil’s frustration was running deeper than ever it had before. Frustration with what lay before his nose; at his many brothers who were as blinded as his father; and impatience with Arthur who gave him as little regard as did his father. For three long years had Hueil served the Pendragon with courage, strength and loyalty. What had been his reward? Naught. Still he was a minor officer; nor had he been awarded personal triumph. Why was he not yet Decurion? Why did Arthur not show him the respect he gave to others – to Bedwyr for instance, this new untried boy? Hueil was thrown only the picked bones while Bedwyr received the flesh from the carcass.

  “Well?” Arthur folded his arms, stood calm. Deceptively calm.

  Glowering, Hueil wiped the back of his hand at the drip of blood coming from his nose, smearing it across his upper lip and cheek. Squarely he met Arthur’s gaze. “I said naught of consequence.”

  Bedwyr sprang forward, fists clenched. “Naught of consequence! By God you cur’s whelp; you insult Lady Gwenhwyfar’s honour and then say ‘tis naught of consequence! I shall have your tongue and manhood for this!” Nostrils flared, eyes wide, he raised his dagger, ready to strike. Arthur reacted with skill and speed, knocking the blade from Bedwyr’s fist, sending the lad sprawling.

  “I will have no killing!” the Pendragon hissed through clamped teeth. Breathing hard through exertion and anger he turned on his heel and asked again of Hueil, “What causes this disturbance?”

  Hueil realised, too late, his tongue had run away with words that would have been better left unsaid. Lowering clenched fists, he made a step away from Arthur, offering submission. “I uttered some fool remark.” He faked a laugh. “My senses are awash with your fine wine.”

  “To that I agree,” Arthur replied dryly, “yet still I wish to know what it was you said.”

  Hueil lifted his head, tilting his chin into his familiar arrogant angle. “
I urge you to leave it my Lord. I spoke out of turn. Let it rest.” Were he a king in his own right no man could have argued at that, no man, not even the Pendragon, would have dared give him the look Arthur was now giving him.

  There followed several moments of uneasy silence. Hueil glowered, there was no getting out of this. All right then, since Arthur forced him to speak he would say what he had to say plainly. “I asked Bedwyr how he spends his leisure now you are returned. Now he can no longer visit your wife’s chamber of an evening.” Silence was rapidly falling around the Hall. All heard Hueil say, “I remarked he had spent so much time in her private company while you were away, that he could now, surely, wield a spindle with better dexterity than his sword.”

  There were a few titters of laughter from those of the Caer, not from Arthur’s men. Gwenhwyfar sat silent, her heart beating fast as a stampeding herd of horse. Arthur tolerated Hueil, she did not. She disliked his arrogance, disliked more his intimate association with Morgause.

  Bedwyr had scrambled to his feet, hot coals of rage burning his cheeks, knuckles white on clenched fists. His answer stung like an irate wasp. “My friendship is no secret. I am often in the King’s and Lady Pendragon’s shared company.”

  Hueil sniggered. “It is not your visits when my Lord Pendragon is in residence that I question, but those when he is not.”

  Llacheu and Gwydre huddled deeper into their concealing shadow, the younger boy clutching at his elder brother’s tunic. Llacheu placed his arm around the boy’s shoulders, drawing him close, his brotherly protection diminishing his own rapid anxiety. The voices were loud, threatening, the atmosphere that had a moment since been of congenial laughter, had blasted suddenly into tense hostility.

  “Will there be a fight?” Gwydre asked in hushed whisper.

  Llacheu shook his head for answer. “Da would not permit brawling.” His reassurance did not sound convincing. He was uncertain what was being said, unsure of the dark implications, but understood well enough that something unpleasant was happening. And that the unpleasantness was directed at Bedwyr and his mam.

  Morgause dipped her fingers into a bowl of scented water, elegantly wiped them on the linen towel proffered by a slave. She had known, when innocently letting slip certain information, that Hueil would not be able to keep it to himself for long. How predictable the poor fool was!

  Gwenhwyfar sat, hands clenched. She wanted to answer Hueil, wanted to cross the feasting Hall in quick strides and strike that suggestive leer from his sour face. She was shaking too much, her legs would not carry her the distance. She must remain seated, it was for her husband to deal with this.

  Arthur was saying nothing. He stood with eyes semi-closed, head inclined. The entire Hall had fallen silent, save for the snarl of dogs fighting over scattered meat and fish.

  With a brief flicker of passing uncertainty, Hueil glanced at Morgause. She nodded imperceptibly, a slight movement of her head, a slow downward sweep of her lashes. He was doing well, so long as he did not stretch the mileage. Placing spread fingers on his chest, he intoned, “What have I said that can cause Bedwyr such concern? I only repeat that which is on every man’s lips. Since he claims innocence why does he seem so hostile?”

  “You dung heap!” Bedwyr lunged forward, only to be blocked a second time, more forcefully, by Arthur.

  “Hold!”

  “But my Lord!” Bedwyr dropped back, his pride hurt; hurt more when Arthur again rounded on him.

  “I said hold! Obey me!” To Hueil he said, “You had best be certain of gossip, you take a chance by daring to repeat it before me.” He turned away, sickened. So the thing was to happen. The dog was turning to bite the master’s hand. It was expected, but Arthur had not bargained on Gwenhwyfar’s hand also being mauled.

  “I would advise,” Morgause’s voice was silk smooth in the silence of the Hall, “seeking what truth lies behind this gossip.”

  Arthur whirled around, strode across the tessellated flooring that showed ample evidence of once seeing better days. He put his hands to the table, opposite her, leant his weight on them and said, his face contorted, “When I require your advice, Madam, I shall seek it. I would suggest not holding your breath for that time.” He swung away, took one step, was halted in mid-stride by her calling:

  “Bedwyr’s attentions to your wife are witnessed. You were away some many weeks, Arthur, a woman can grow lonely for a man’s company. Were I a husband,” Morgause was saying, her words throbbing through Gwenhwyfar’s swirling head, “I would ask, if a wife were seen kissing and embracing a young man in the openness of a garden when her husband was abroad, what intimacies then, might occur in the privacy of her chamber?”

  Gwenhwyfar felt the colour drain from her face, her hand went involuntarily to her mouth, she rammed the back of her hand hard against her lips to stem the cry of rage.

  Bedwyr was incensed. He appealed to Arthur, “You cannot believe this vomited filth!”

  “You were seen, Bedwyr,” Morgause persisted, as calm as a tranquil river. “Before you make open love to a married woman, particularly a woman married to a king, I suggest you ensure you are not over-watched.” She selected a honey cake and bit delicately into it.

  LVII

  Hushed murmurs, a few mutters of protest from Arthur’s men were heard, but the invited guests this night were mostly from the settlement and stronghold – Councillors, dignitaries, men of trade and note – and well acquainted with Bedwyr. He had flirted with almost every woman present, tossing flattering remarks, giving looks of appraisal. Drawing pink blushes to a maiden’s cheek and to the elder matrons’, pleased they could still draw a young man’s attention. Women – and husbands – exchanged knowing glances. Aye, the lad was one for the ladies! Gwenhwyfar felt suddenly sick with apprehension. Her stomach heaved to her throat, her body trembled. Too easy was it to read those sneering looks on people’s faces, to imagine what vileness they were thinking and murmuring. People would more easily believe the excitement of lies than accept the tedium of truth. Arthur had his back to the table, to her. With a slight turn of his head he cast a sideways glance at her, looked quickly away before their eyes should meet. She blinked aside tears. Surely he did not believe these lies? Did not doubt her faithfulness… surely?

  He was a few yards from her. Staring ahead, not looking at her, his fists were clenched tight, the nails biting into the soft flesh of his palms, fighting the uncertainty. Somehow, Gwenhwyfar managed to get to her feet, although her body was shaking, her knees threatening to buckle. She walked calmly and with dignity around the table. Faces and voices faded. Nothing, no one, mattered except Arthur. She stared steadily at him as she came, people parting to make way for her. What madness was happening here this night?

  “My husband, you are my only love. We have our disagreements and our sadness, as do all partners of marriage, but never would I betray you or that love. Never.”

  Hueil had followed Arthur, stood eight paces to his other side. He snorted derision. “Do you not expect her to deny it?” He was warming to this thing, the overspill of resentment frothing to the surface. “They are lovers. Both have betrayed you as king and husband and cousin. Neither of them is openly going to admit it.”

  “Ask whether she denies allowing Bedwyr to her chamber when she is alone. Whether she denies meeting with him in the garden, embracing him.” Morgause was smiling, pleasantly, almost offhandedly. The odious bitch!

  Gwenhwyfar flung back a taut answer. “I do not deny either. Bedwyr is my kin, he is as a brother to me.”

  Morgause gave a low chuckle of amusement. “Yet, he is not, technically, a brother, is he?” Her voice carried very well, even at a soft murmur.

  Saying nothing Arthur had not moved. Gwenhwyfar stepped closer to him, her hand extended but not daring to touch him. “You do not believe this nonsense! Do you?” Her hurt for a moment had flared into anger, was struck suddenly to fear when he at last met her eyes. “You do!” she gasped. “My god, you do!” She bit her lip
, let her imploring hand drop; dared not reach out, lest he brush her aside.

  Arthur bit his bottom lip. He was breathing fast, his nostrils flaring, chest heaving for air, fingers gripping the cold touch of his sword pommel. He dared not take a glance towards the walls, dared not look, for he knew they were closing in on him, surrounding him, waiting to fall and crush him. He wanted to run, reach for cool, sweet air, for the vault of unbounded, starlit sky. Nor dared he look at Gwenhwyfar, for fear that just this once she lied to him.

  Their quarrels were nothing, heated words between two people with opposing wills, nothing more than sparring or sword practice, an edge against which to sharpen ideas and opinions. All right, he admitted, whores had shared his bed even when they should not, but they meant nothing more than a way to satisfy a need. And aye, she had left him for a while, and in his solitude he had turned to Elen, but Gwenhwyfar had gone because of her grief, not because of their often exchanged anger. He loved Gwenhwyfar, above all life he loved Gwenhwyfar, and it hurt deeper than any battlefield wound that others could snarl these vile accusations at her. He ought to make an end of Morgause, make an end to this incessant stirring of hatred and malice, and that hurt more. It hurt that even to protect the woman for whom he would willingly die, he did not have it in him to kill Morgause.

  Unaware of his king’s surging anguish, Hueil made another step forward. “I regret this must come into the open, but the truth ought not be hidden behind shadows. As one of your friends,” he flicked his gaze around the assembly, “I am relieved that I found the courage to inform you of this treachery.”

  Bedwyr crossed the distance between himself and Hueil in three long strides, swung him angrily around. “Friend? Courage? Aye, it takes courage to repeat such filth!”