“It was.”
“You?”
“Aye, me.” The veteran straightened his shoulders, his pride shining through a battle-grimed scowl.
Cunedda nodded at the man. “For your loyal service, I will recommend you for an honour, Mabon.”
“With respect, Sir,” Mabon replied, “I thank you, but to whom will you give such recommendation? We,” again he swept his callused hand towards the men, “have no lord.”
Direct into Cunedda’s hands. “That,” the Lion snapped, eyes blazing in triumph, “is where you are wrong!”
Dissent grumbled louder, each man talking rapidly to the man at his shoulder, heads shaking, a few fists being raised.
Cunedda boomed out, “Do you, Mabon, recollect Lady Ygrainne’s condition when you found an urgent need to flee that night?”
“As if it were yesterday,” Mabon answered forthright. “We were all concerned for my Lady, heavy with child as she was.”
Cunedda beckoned Mabon forward. “Come out here, man, so all may see and hear. Recount the tale to those who do not know.”
Hesitant at first Mabon began to talk. He could not see the point of all this, but Cunedda must have his reasons.
“After the defeat, Uthr fled into his own secure lands of Dumnonia. He knew it would be only a matter of time afore Vortigern and the followers of the slain Gorlois made an attempt on his life. For some months we managed, our people were loyal, looking to Uthr and his new lady with affection. But there is always the risk of traitors. The attack came at a bad time – rough seas and foul weather.”
The man was settling to his tale, confidence growing. “Lady Ygrainne had no choice but to take ship with us. It was she Gorlois’ kin wanted dead, for her insult in leaving that lecherous bastard.” He spat, nodded apology at Cunedda and, as the nearest female present, Gwenhwyfar. “The sea crossing was bad, bad enough for a fit man let alone a woman close to her time.” Mabon shook his head. “She was delivered of a son soon after we disembarked in Less Britain. The child lived a day, no longer.” He shook his head more vigorously at the enormity of the loss. “Uthr’s only true born son. There have been no more.”
Silence, save for the rustle of a spirited wind rising with the incoming tide. They all knew the tale but this time the recounting hit harder, rubbing salt into an open wound. No heir to carry the Dragon. No son to follow Uthr’s dream and title.
Cunedda tugged at his moustache. “Were there not two women with child on that ship?”
Mabon frowned, startled, uncertain how the Lord of Gwynedd came to know such small detail. “Aye, my Lord.” He spoke slowly, thinking what to say. “Caromy, my Lady’s maid, carried a child. She birthed a boy during the crossing.” Mabon pursed his lips. “Poor lass had a bad time of it.” He glanced sideways at Arthur, who stared back at him.
The story concluded lamely, a few beads of sweat standing out on Mabon’s brow beneath the snarling head of the wolf cloak as Arthur’s stare continued to bore into the man.
“At first, tongues wagged that the child was Uthr’s doing.” He spread his hands. “He liked his women. Then Ectha took the boy in formal foster, so it was considered his had been the…” he coughed, “indiscretion.”
Pushing further, Cunedda probed for more information. “And this son of Caromy’s?” He smoothed his moustache with the tip of his index finger. “How did he fare?”
Mabon’s resigned glance flickered between Arthur and Cunedda. “Ah, ‘tis the shame of it, with all respect to the lad here.” He nodded in apology to Arthur. “Caromy’s child was a sickly thing, but ‘twas the one that lived.” He sighed, pointed to Arthur, “As you see, he thrived.”
“The mother?”
“Took sick, died.”
Throughout the telling, Arthur’s expression remained impassive, almost bored. Gwenhwyfar, following the exchange of words and glances felt herself teetering on the brink of excitement. She had not missed that familiar twitch about her father’s lips; he was enjoying himself. For a heartbeat, she felt she knew what was to come, then it was gone like a seed lost to the wind. She waited, holding her breath.
Cunedda’s voice suddenly roared like the creature he was named for. Many jumped; Gwenhwyfar almost squeaked. “I can add to the telling!”
His listeners shuffled in anticipation, eyes and ears riveted, locked on to Cunedda’s muscular bulk. He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, brought the boy forward, then with apparent carelessness rested his other hand lightly on the Stone.
“Mabon has identified this lad to you as Arthur. I can tell you now of something I have held safe unto me these many years.”
Gwenhwyfar took hold of Etern’s arm, a thrill of anticipation streaking through her. She had known, deep down, where these things rested, unspoken and unheeded.
Excited talk, muttered questions. From the back, a few shouts. Raising the hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder, Cunedda paused, waiting for complete silence to fall.
The incoming sea shuffled against the shore and a gentle salt wind hissed from the hills. Two screeching gulls wheeled overhead.
To the misted blue of the new day, Cunedda boomed, “It was not the son of Uthr and Ygrainne who died, but Caromy’s!”
The hand went back to Arthur; the other still touched the sacred Stone. He let the murmur rumble, heard the rise of hope begin to dawn as the men around him realised what was to come.
He went on, speaking fast. “The babes were exchanged, a deception to shield Uthr’s firstborn from Vortigern’s spite. Only four of us knew the truth of it: Uthr and Ygrainne, Caromy, and myself.” Cunedda nodded grimly. “Now you know it. And by all the gods that ever were or ever shall be, Vortigern too shall know soon enough.”
The muttering had grown louder, men pushing closer, faces that a moment before were grey and lost coming alive, eager.
With ringing triumph Cunedda finished his speech. “There is another Pendragon – still young, I grant, we need wait for him to come of age. We, Uthr and I, had hoped we would not need to reveal him until he was ready, but that was not to be.” Cunedda chivvied Arthur before him and shouted above the rising excitement, his voice ringing out almost to the watching mountains. “Here, before the hallowed sanctity of our Stone, I give you your next king. I give you the Pendragon – Arthur!”
He stepped back leaving Arthur to stand alone as a great clamour rose up into the sky. The lad smiled now, the pain and sorrow fading with that great roar of acclaim. Cunedda was wrong: five had known Uthr had his heir. Arthur had known, all these years in his dreams and thoughts, he had known Uthr to be his father. Why else had he loved the man so, and the man been so fond of a lad? All the doubts and fears planted by Morgause fell away. He grinned, broadly, triumphantly, at the pride in Cunedda’s face, the unexpected pleasure on those of his sons. Arthur winked boyishly at the exultant Gwenhwyfar.
Unexpected, Cunedda knelt before the lad, offering his sword as a token of his loyalty. Few heard the words he spoke, above that tumult of approval raised by those watching men. It did not matter, all knew the oath of allegiance.
“To you, Lord, I give my sword and shield, my heart and soul. To you, Lord, I give my life, to command as you will.”
Arthur could not hide his consternation at so great a man kneeling at a boy’s feet. With shaking fingers, he touched Cunedda’s offered sword then, impulsively, he raised the man and embraced him as a friend.
It if were possible, the roar increased. Men of Gwynedd yelled their delight at seeing their lord accepted by the new Pendragon, and men of Uthr, heartsore and bruised, shouted and cheered, relieved to have their anxiety and uncertainty so splendidly lifted.
One by one the sons of Gwynedd stepped forward to follow their father’s example. Etern too knelt.
“I am not yet come to manhood, I cannot swear oath to you. But this I can swear, Arthur, when the time comes you will not be wanting for a more loyal sword, for mine shall be yours, whenever you have need of it.”
Arthur choked, a
lmost unable to speak. He clasped his friend’s arm and stammered, “Then I shall indeed be blessed with a greater fortune than I deserve.”
As Etern stepped aside, Gwenhwyfar, with head high, strode forward. The sun burst through a low covering of misty cloud, making her hair and jewels sparkle with dazzling brilliance. She knelt solemnly before Arthur, her grace and hint of woman’s beauty showing clearly through the lankiness of her child’s body, catching every watcher’s attention.
The noise abated. No woman took the oath of loyalty. What was this girl-child about?
She held Arthur’s gaze and her voice, young though it was, carried clear and bold.
“I too am of the blood of Gwynedd. Were I born male I would swear my oath, but I am woman-born. I have no shield or sword.”
Arthur took her hands in his. Like a fool he felt a sudden urge to weep. Looking down at her earnest face, his dark eyes seeing deep into the hidden secrets of her tawny flecked green, he realised how much he wanted her for his own.
Tremulously Gwenhwyfar said, “I have something else to give, Lord.” Her heart was hammering. “When I am woman-grown I shall have a greater gift to pledge. I offer you, my Lord, Arthur Pendragon, to use how you choose, my unborn sons.”
The family behind, ranged behind the Stone, roared delight and approval along with the excited host. Cunedda almost burst with pride as he shouted with the rest of them. Aye, his only daughter was as fine a woman as the one he had taken in marriage. Had he not always known it would be so?
Arthur gripped Gwenhwyfar’s hands and raised her to her feet. He spoke quietly, words for her alone, not trusting the emotion to lie easy. “I accept your pledge, my Cymraes fach – only, before you take him, ensure your future husband agrees also!”
Gwenhwyfar tossed her head, a little annoyed. “I told you: I will not wed with any but the best.”
Arthur grinned, suddenly confident, emboldened. “Would you consider a Pendragon the best?”
The men of the war host were jostling forward, eager to take the oath. Gwenhwyfar found herself swept aside, her answer lost to Arthur’s ears.
“I will not bear my sons to anyone less.”
XV
Morgause was leaving. She had informed Cunedda curtly last evening of her intention, demanding suitable escort and horses. He had not attempted to dissuade her.
She had stationed herself apart from the knot of women gathered on the far side of the Stone Ground, her expression as granite hard as the Stone itself. Watching the elated men swarm around Arthur, her fists clenched, the nails digging into the flesh of her palms. All the words and oaths and curses that were ever sworn, swirled in her throat ready to spew from between clenched teeth. It all made sense now! Uthr’s excuses, the evasive replies. That was why he was so fond of the boy. That was why he had refused to divorce Ygrainne. Bastard! Lying, deceitful bastard! ‘The Goddess rot your bones, Uthr Pendragon!’
Her maid approached warily, sensing the mood. She whispered, indicating a group of waiting men and horses. Morgause walked to them with quick, angry steps, mounted the mare held for her and prepared to ride out, then changed her mind. With rough hands and kicking heels she forced her mare through the tightly packed men and halted before Arthur. For a long moment Morgause said nothing, just stared at the boy with malevolent hatred.
Arthur returned the look, unflinching, triumph sparking behind his dark eyes, this unexpected knowledge of identity provided a greater courage than he knew he possessed. “You are leaving us?” he said coolly in the neat, precise Latin she always used. Added with a sarcastic smile, “You will not be missed.”
The mare, uneasy at the press of men, swung away suddenly, eyes rolling, head lowered and rear hooves lashing out. There came shouts of alarm, men darting backwards, jumping aside. Morgause yanked hard at the horse’s bit, hauling her back. “You may have discovered you are no bastard, but I tell you this, your father certainly was.” She spat at Arthur and dug her heels into her mount, causing the mare to leap forward with a squeal of protest.
Several men fell beneath the plunging horse; one screamed as a thrashing hoof crashed on his leg, smashing the bone. Others crouched, arms protecting heads, or scrambled to safety. The instant reaction was rage. Hands reached out to stop her, grabbing at the bridle, countering her double insult. Morgause slashed faces, hands, heads with her riding whip, glaring and snarling like a savage cat.
Dabbing at the spittle, Arthur wiped it, repugnant, from his cheek. “Let the bitch go,” he commanded in the men’s British tongue. “We shall be well rid of her.”
He strode quickly to the injured man, laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, ordered, “Send someone for a stretcher, see this man’s well tended.”
Morgause was galloping, driving the mare hard. Arthur stood and watched her leave. He ought to feel elated, joyful, at the very least relieved. Morgause was gone, gone from his life. No more of her slaps and tortures. No more of her venomous tongue and sharp sarcasm.
If only he could be certain. Certain that she really had gone from him. For good. But nothing was ever a certainty where that witch woman was concerned.
July 450
XVI
The grain harvest was ruined. Persistent rain worked through garments, soaking, uncomfortable to the skin and aching into the joints of old bones and new-healing wounds. That glorious month of June had rumbled into a July that brought a torrent of wind-driven hail from the west with all the fury of an angered boar. Had Vortigern used some dark power in the sending of that storm?
Within the one night, oats, wheat and barley that had stood proud and golden, lay sodden and blackened. Fortunate that Gwynedd was not reliant on the growing of crops for survival; they had their sheep and cattle; the wild deer, fowl and boar. The sea to fish. But the grain was needed for the horses, for the baking of bread, and for the poor man’s staple diet of porridge.
When Arthur had taken up the title of Pendragon there came a flourish of exuberance and optimism, which filled the next few day even though Cunedda had ordered the lad home to safety in Less Britain.
Gwenhwyfar missed him. Missed his laughter and jaunty teasing. His friendship. Theirs had developed into a special liking, something that went beyond the sharing of seemingly endless summer days. Gwenhwyfar was a girl-child, but a girl on the brink of womanhood. With the coming of Arthur, she had felt as though she were walking in the wild foam of the surf – neither a girl on the firm, golden sand, nor a woman grown, in the open swell of the sea. She walked somewhere between, neither one nor yet the other, she could only look back to where the innocence of childhood romped, and ahead to the unknown future.
“Do not forget me,” he had called, as his ship slipped its moorings and the tide bore him away, that first night after his proclaiming.
“Never!” she had shouted back, standing on toe-tip to watch until the darkness took him. She would not forget Arthur. None would forget the vibrant boy who carried their dreams and their hopes of freedom. But nor could they forget Vortigern.
For a few days they shrugged off the threat of his coming, mocking his incompetence, carolling lewd songs and passing even cruder jests at the King’s expense. False bravado. With the coming of that storm, hope and gaiety fled Caer Arfon.
A depression settled, clinging like the grey swathing mist of low cloud that shrouded the brooding mountains. Even the sea rolled flat and grey.
Vortigern had come as far as Llyn Tegid and set up camp, entrenching himself and his stinking Saex mercenaries beside the river that fed the lake. Envoys began passing back and forth, riding dismally through the torrential rain. Cunedda’s proud messengers, Vortigern’s haughty emissary. A skirmish of words. The King demanding Cunedda surrender his sword and pay homage unconditionally; Cunedda playing for time with excuses and delays – seeking sanctuary from the inevitable.
How long, though, would Vortigern wait?
His patience would ebb, the relay of verbal procrastination eventually run its course. A few days
; a week; ten days – twelve. It was to be the Lion Lord’s homage to the king or battle. Cunedda wanted no further bloodshed, but Vortigern was not a man to trust, and his terms of surrender would not sit easy. One week turned slowly into two. Time had ended. So must the waiting.
Enniaun stirred more heat to the hearth, sending sparks and flames spitting high as he tossed wood to the reluctant blaze. The kindling was damp, more smoke than heat curling into the privacy of Cunedda’s chamber. He shifted his brother Ceredig’s boot aside and reseated himself within the circle around the hearth.
“To my mind,” Osmail said, shuffling his cloak tighter about his shoulders, “it is naught but insanity for you to ride alone into Vortigern’s encampment, Da.”
With a snort of contempt, Cunedda hurled back, “Then I am insane.” He raised a finger, pointed it at his eldest son.
“The moment I agree to ride out of my gates I hand my pride to Vortigern. Pride I can afford to lose, it’s a thing easily restored. The life of a son is not.”
Ceredig shifted his weight from a cramped ankle. “He would not dare harm any of us, Da. If we must humble Gwynedd before his army, then let us do so together. All of us.”
“Aaghh!” Cunedda stamped to his feet and strode from the circle. “Must I tell you this again? Have you all lost your hearing and wits?” He stalked up to Ceredig and bent so as to speak directly to his face. “I have no choice but to submit without condition. I do have a choice as to who accompanies me. I take for escort thirty of my guard. No sons.” His finger pointed at each face; the men looked back at him with mixed expressions as he repeated, “No sons. Never again will I be forced to witness the cold-minded butchering of my own flesh and blood.”
It was useless to argue further, but Enniaun made one last attempt. He spoke softly edging away from the rash heat of the argument that had been tossed back and forth around the hearth this past hour or more. “It was different then, Da, as well you know.”
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