Hesitant at first, Gwenhwyfar reached out and rested her hand lightly on Arthur’s hand, a cold hand that was clasped so tight around his sword. When he did not flinch from her touch, she said, “It is not I who lies, my Lord. Not I who deceives you.” She lowered her eyes. “On the life of our two sons, Arthur, I do not lie.”
Hueil laughed. With his fists bunched at his lips, head back, chest thrusting out, he bellowed laughter. “What!” he guffawed, “Arthur’s sons? It is in my mind that our King let the one drown because he suspected it was not his to call son!”
A dreadful silence slammed across the room.
For Arthur, it was as though an enchantment had been broken. He spun Hueil around with his right hand, his left fist coming back and forward in a movement so fast few saw it. Hueil staggered, fell, fresh blood streaming from his nose. He was a fighting man, a tribes-warrior and the eldest son of a chieftain. No man treated him so. Not even a king. Enraged, he was instantly on his feet. Heedless of the blood staining down his chin and tunic, he lowered his head and butted Arthur full in the stomach, the force sending them both reeling, crashing into the table behind, where Morgause sat. She moved, calmly but quickly, left the Hall, returning to her chamber with a slight, triumphant smile. Arthur was fighting, and doubt had been sown on Gwenhwyfar’s fidelity. Hueil? Arthur could not have him killed, for he was an honoured chieftain’s son and the repercussions would be immense were the Pendragon to act so foolishly. But Hueil would be forced to leave Arthur’s service, would become his enemy, and where would he go, save back to his father’s lands? And once there, it would take small contrivance to help him take a kingship – and set her free.
Morgause inclined her head to the two guards outside her door and entered her chamber. For all her annoyance at being kept here against her will at Caer Luel, it had been a most interesting evening.
LVIII
No one had noticed Morgause leave. Gwenhwyfar was swept aside, almost forgotten, as the crowd formed a hurried, eager circle around the two men. There was nothing people liked better than to watch a fight. Arthur was stripping his leather jerkin, his sword belt, Bedwyr taking them from him, saying with fervour, “Leave some of him for me to finish!” Gwenhwyfar stuffed her fingers in her mouth to stop the scream escaping.
The two men circled, eye to eye, watching for that first important move, fists clenched, muscles taut. Hueil kicked, his boot missing Arthur’s thigh as Arthur stepped aside, his foot in turn missing Hueil’s outstretched leg by the breadth of a hair. Again they circled, sprang, hands gripping on tunic-clad arms, their wrestling evenly matched for strength, although Arthur was the taller. He brought his opponent down, both men collapsing to the floor where they rolled several times, neither able to gain the advantage.
Arthur was on top. He shifted his weight and Hueil thrust up with his knee, sending the Pendragon careering backwards into the circle of cheering onlookers. Hueil was up. Roaring, he smashed his fist into Arthur’s stomach; he doubled, but as he straightened, sent his own fist upwards into Hueil’s chin. They traded blows, each punch finding a mark. Both were bloodied, Hueil from his streaming nose, Arthur from a jagged gash raking from temple to eyebrow.
Suddenly they were down once more, Arthur on top with his hands gripping Hueil’s hair, lifting his head, banging it again and again to the floor.
Gwenhwyfar clawed her way through the crowd who cheered, calling advice, whistling encouragement. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop them!” She tugged at one man’s tunic, tried another, an officer this time who, in the heat of excitement thrust her aside. Desperate, she ran to Arthur, pulling at him, pleading. He took no notice, continued pounding Hueil’s head.
That grip on his arm, the slight distraction, was enough for Hueil to gather his senses and effort of strength. He shoved Arthur from him, sending him and Gwenhwyfar sprawling to the floor. Bedwyr dragged Gwenhwyfar away, holding her tight to him, cried, “Leave them, Gwen, it is for Arthur to finish, Arthur alone and in his own way.”
She struggled. “Kick the bastard, Arthur!” Bedwyr was shouting. “Use your feet, man!”
Twisting free of Bedwyr’s hold – he barely heeded her going – Gwenhwyfar thrust her way out through the press of rowdy spectators, one man only murmuring a brief apology on realising who she was. Women stood alongside their menfolk; some shouting louder, even coarser than their husbands. They were like animals; a wolf-pack, baying for the kill at the scent of blood. Then a low moan swept around the circle as Arthur took a sharp blow, staggered and lost his balance. Hueil, grinning, took advantage, jumped, pinned his opponent down.
Gwenhwyfar did not look back. She heard the howl rising from thirsting lips, encouraging the savagery of one victim pitted against another. A bestial lust that Rome in her day had exploited with the staged deaths of the arena. Cock, bull, bear. Men, women and children. Covering her ears with her hands, she fled, ran to where there would be no people, to where she could hide, curl into a foetal ball and submit to misery. She went to where she had always gone when seeking solitude in this place brim-full of wearisome people; to the garden.
There was no moon this night; the few lights that did emit from small windows and open colonnades casting only a dim glow. The overgrowth of winter-dead shrubs and plants, the neglected trees, cast weird and wonderful shadows against the darkness. Gwenhwyfar slumped against the wall of the fish pool, which held only weeds, no fish. She was sobbing, long shuddering breaths catching harsh in her aching chest. Nothing made sense, nothing seemed real, solid. She huddled, blind to sound, touch and feel, spiralling down into a pit of reaching, grappling hands. Vaguely aware of numbing cold and throbbing pain, she slithered to the hard frost-gripped ground. None of it mattered. None of it, for she thought, wrongly, that Arthur had listened to them. Listened to their lies; believed them. Worry, hate, jealousy, subdued emotions and feelings, which by accustomed habit she usually thrust aside, rose unbidden to the surface. Why had he believed them? And now Arthur was fighting. For her? No, not for her, for his own hurt pride. The confused emotions swirled through grief, hurt and back to fear; fear for Arthur. Fighting. He delighted in battle, but was not so good when it came to wrestling. He relied on weapons, his skill with sword and shield unequalled. He could fight well enough to hold his own if evenly matched, but Hueil was accomplished with his fists.
Arthur was breathing hard, sweat trickling into his eyes, soaking into the linen of his shirt. He crouched, again circling, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, waiting for the chance to spring and gain a firm hold. His one satisfaction, Hueil was breathing as hard, the sweat standing as proud on his forehead. The intensity of anger had given way to something deeper in Arthur. This was something more between them now, more than proving a point.
Some watching, Bedwyr, Geraint and Meriaun, men who knew Arthur well, realised the mutation to this darker side. Morgause, with her eye for seizing power, would have recognised it instantly, were she there. Gwenhwyfar certainly did, which is why she had fled. This was the young stallion challenging the old. Only one could lead. Only one could win, and live. There was nothing visibly to show how the thing had shifted, how the shadow blended from a heated quarrel to the death fight; from the settling of angry words to the taking of leadership. However it happened, the watchers’ intoxication subtly altered, their excited shouts beginning to fade. This thing had become serious.
Hueil, from where many would later wonder, suddenly had a dagger in his hand. Some said he had been passed it, others that he had it hidden in his boot; no matter, it was in his hand, slicing at Arthur’s belly. Astonished, Arthur leapt back as he saw the blade flash, but not fast enough. It carved a streak of blood and he blocked a second slash with his arm, using it as a shield. He tried ramming his elbow hard against Hueil’s chest but his foot slipped, forcing him to spring apart, eyes, ears, senses, oblivious of everything save this man trying to kill him. Someone was quick-witted enough to toss a dagger to Arthur, but he missed the catch, it fell at his
feet. Hueil tried to kick it aside but Arthur was quicker. He sprang, rolled, was up, the dagger in his hand in one fluid movement.
Someone said, “Should this not be stopped?” Several agreed. None made any movement.
Llacheu sat crouched in the shadow of the wall, Gwydre’s head burrowed into his tunic, the younger boy shaking with fear. Both had witnessed their mother, blinded by fear and tears, leave. Both, although not understanding the shouting, realised enough to know that something awful was passing this night. Their mam was upset. Da was fighting. No ordinary fight as the men often displayed on the training ground. No friendly wrestle to keep muscles and wits sharp. This was the real, deadly thing. He was an intelligent boy, Llacheu. He listened, watched, gained much from his observance of father and men. Saw too the women’s side, the love and hurt Gwenhwyfar had for Arthur. Understood it, for as a child he loved his father beyond question but was often confused by his acid temper. Knew also that his da loved his mam. Why did they quarrel? And why had his father not ordered Hueil instantly arrested when he had spoken those terrible accusations? Llacheu recognised malicious lies when he heard them, did not his father?
He had to see for himself, had to watch! The shouting, the cheering, he had tolerated for such noise was always at the training ground: men’s good-natured jeering at a companion’s ill-timed stroke of the sword or bad javelin throw; bursting laughter when someone was unhorsed; cheers, respectful praise for quick thinking. This unnerving semi-silence was altogether different. No words, only the occasional sharp breath or exclamation. What was happening?
He stood, settled his brother safe in the corner. “Stay there,” he ordered. Gwydre, his lip caught between chattering teeth, nodded. It was easy for Llacheu to push his way through. No one paid him heed, assumed he was some impertinent servant boy. He squirmed to the front just as Hueil first produced the dagger, bit back a startled cry as he saw his father’s shirt tear and soak with blood. He watched in fascinated horror, everything seemingly slowed, drained. Sound, action. Hate and blood rising in a slow stench of time-captured movement.
His father parried a blow, thrust with his own dagger. Hueil feinted to the left. Arthur, as he caught the ruse, countered, slipped again on the bloodstained floor, went down. Fell, his face pale, staring gape-mouthed as Hueil seized his chance and with dagger raised, came to make Arthur’s end.
Llacheu screamed. His body moved; it seemed as if he were running through thigh-deep mud, he couldn’t get there; couldn’t get to his da! Bedwyr too was pounding forward as Llacheu ran. The boy was there first, leaping at Hueil, his hands thrusting the weapon aside, deflecting the blade to rip through his own tunic. Hueil staggered under the unexpected weight of fury. He cried out, dropped his weapon. Llacheu fell, tears of rage and pain mingling with the soaking blood.
All life in that room paused, became petrified for two, three heartbeats. Bedwyr stilled in mid-run; men’s mouths fell open in half-shout; women, hands clamped to lips, chalk-white faces. Stilled, as if a spell had cast over them all.
As suddenly the spell was lifted. Movement, noise. Screams from women, confusion, a babble of angry shouts and jeers. The crowd surged forward. Someone, a friend, had the sense to drag Hueil aside, usher him away out through the servants and slaves gathered beyond the kitchen archway. A sword was pressed in his hand. Go they urged, take a horse, go quickly!
Gwenhwyfar was cold. She was shivering. She fought to get herself to her feet, could not, gave up the struggle. Her body ached, her head throbbed. She wished she would die, here and now, wished death could end this misery and pain. A shadow of movement, a figure ran, breathing heavily, crouching low through the garden. He ran to the far wall, flung a handful of stones at square panes of time-dusted glass.
“Morgause!” The voice was slurred, urgent with breathless fear. “Morgause!”
She came to the window, opened it, peered out. “Hueil? What in…?”
“Quiet! Listen to me.”
“Dare you use that tone with me!”
“Silence, woman! I need to leave. I have slain Arthur’s son.”
Gwenhwyfar struggled to her feet, the words slamming into her like a spear thrust. Arthur’s son? My son? She staggered forward.
“You cannot leave without me, Hueil!” Morgause squealed, sudden panic rising in her.
“I must, I have no time to take you. Arthur will be after me for this, after me for my life, and I shall have no chance of survival if I am caught.” Hueil shuddered at the thought of the death Arthur would impose. Buried in sand, with the head only displayed, a blunted sword to hew at the neck…Torn apart by horses crazed with firebrands.
Gwenhwyfar let go the support of the wall and sank to the gravel pathway. Her son. Her son was dead? Which son? Gwydre? Llacheu… ?
“I hear the hunt; they are coming.” Hueil swung aside, darted for the shadows, calling, “I will be back for you, Morgause. When I have taken my kingdom and Arthur dares to raise a hand against me, I pledge I shall come back for you!”
LIX
Arthur stood at the end of Llacheu’s bed, body slumped, head bowed. One of the few remaining lights was flickering, the wick burning low; a wraith of smoke spiralling upward from it. Dawn must not be far off. He rose, walked with acute stiffness to the irritating candle and snuffed it out. For a long while he stood looking at it. Empty of feeling, empty of thought. The boy slept. The injury had looked worse than it really was. Within the passing of a few months there would barely be a scar. Not on the skin; not for Llacheu. But for himself and Gwenhwyfar?
He crossed the room, opening the door with care, slipped out into the dim-lit corridor beyond. Bedwyr sprang to his feet, jumping to attention. He was dishevelled, dark beard growth shadowing his chin. One hand resting on the door catch. Arthur regarded his cousin, snorted, “Do I appear to you as you do to me?”
Bedwyr attempted a lop-sided grin. “At least I don’t have those livid cuts and bruises.”
Closing the door, Arthur placed his arm around Bedwyr’s shoulder, began walking with him. “Remind me, next time you quarrel, lad, to let you sort it out on your own.” Arthur touched his fingers to his swollen cheek, winced. “There must be less painful ways of settling an argument!”
“Arthur, I… ”
“Leave it. There is no need for words.” Arthur paused, made his decision. “I intend to leave as planned. Morgause remains here, but I need someone to watch over her. I want you to be that someone.”
Bedwyr hung his head, bit his lip, found the courage to say with a trembling voice, “Then you do not want me near you. You do not trust me.”
They had reached Arthur’s chamber. He peered inside, Gwenhwyfar was asleep. They had found her, huddled and exhausted, and carried her here. Arthur himself had undressed her, held her close while he told her their son was going to be all right.
To Bedwyr, he explained, “I ask you to guard Morgause, lad, because, beyond my wife, you are the only other person I can, do, trust implicitly.”
The night passed quiet; Arthur had lain beside Gwenhwyfar on the bed intending to rest for a while only, had fallen asleep almost before his eyes had closed. It was mid-morning before he awoke. As he moved, Gwenhwyfar said, “Do you sleep fully clothed now, then?”
Arthur opened one eye. She sat propped beside him, her hair tumbling around her face, cascading down her shoulders. Her eyes were puffy, her skin pale as fresh-settled snow. He sat up, groaned as seemingly a thousand muscles roared protest. “It saves the bother of dressing.” He swung his legs to the floor, groaned again. “Mithras’ love, but I am stiff!”
“I expect your body aches too.” With a smile, Gwenhwyfar slid in the lewd jest.
Arthur shifted, slowly, to look at her. He cupped her face in his hand. “You scared me last night, Cymraes.”
Instantly she flashed back. “As you scared me!”
“What was I to have done? Laughed it off? Let them walk away?”
“You are the King. There are better ways of proving
something a lie than fighting over it.”
Arthur could not answer that. His body told him the same, but when Gwenhwyfar quietly added, “Or were you not sure it was a lie?” he caught his breath.
Arthur sprang round, grasped her hair, jerking her head sharply back. He was leaning very close, his breath angry on her face. “Let me say this once, and once only. If ever I find you in a compromising situation with a man then I would not bother fighting for you. You and he would be instantly dead. That, I shall personally see to.” The force behind his anger took her breath away, for they were not words stated for effect. He meant them.
“You love me that much?” she whispered.
“Aye. That much.”
LX
Two people, many miles from Caer Luel, were interested in the animosity that had overspilled into hatred between Arthur and Hueil of Alclud. One was the Lady Winifred. Her ears pricked with interest when traders from the north-western coast brought embellished gossip of the fight. A pity the boy had not been killed after all, but he was young, he might well not reach maturity. For Arthur she was a little more sympathetic – it would not suit her purpose to have him dead, not until those two brats of Gwenhwyfar’s were safely out of the way.
As for Gwenhwyfar herself, well, once tales were rumoured they were hard to set aside, and Winifred had every intention of ensuring the gossip of the Queen’s infidelity received much airing. Morgause she did not know, nor wanted to; Arthur was a fool not to have the woman dispatched, but then, Arthur always had been the fool where women were concerned.
It was Amlawdd, a petty lord with a smallholding of land over to the western coats beyond Aquae Sulis, who was the most interested in the spiralling gossip. Hueil’s mother and his own mother were cousins, and the boy from the north had come to live in the south for several years. Amlawdd and he had run as cubs from the same pack, learning to hunt and ride and fight together. But young whelps grow to manhood, and the friendships of childhood dwindle with age, the distance between the two boys who had become men greatening when Hueil joined with Arthur.
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