The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Enniaun emptied his goblet and refilled it. He drank another gulp, said, “Our mountains protect us, but we could not defend ourselves from Vortigern’s unleashed Saxons if he decided to cede our territory to them. For how long could we withstand a siege, an assault from north, south, east and west?”

  Reluctantly Etern nodded agreement. “Gwynedd is defensible, but not impregnable.”

  “I might add,” heads spun round at the sound of Arthur’s tired voice, “were Gwenhwyfar to wed another her life would be in danger. Vortigern and Melwas are both malevolent men.”

  He trailed wearily to the door. “Defy Vortigern and his nephew in this and she would spend the rest of her life watching shadows.”

  Etern extended a hand to Arthur. “Do not leave us, there is much to talk of.”

  Arthur shook his head. He steadied his breath, passed a hand over his cheeks, nose and mouth, then forced a smile. “Happy endings are for lovers in harpers’ tales.” He left, calling for a slave to fetch his cloak.

  “Happen the wind will change,” Etern said.

  His brother and father looked at him. He lifted his hands, let them fall. “Something may yet be awaiting to release us from this snare.”

  “After all these years? I doubt it.”

  XXIII

  Whistling a jaunty tune Cei sauntered through the empty streets, savouring the delights he had discovered during the evening. He chuckled to himself, recalling Arthur’s teasing about his relationship with a rich widow. Aye, she was not young, but what did age matter compared to experience? He fingered the ruby ring on his finger, given impulsively when she had entreated him to stay the rest of the night. He had refused, having learnt from past mistakes not to linger too soon. Women had a habit of construing much from very little. He had left with promises to return another evening – happen he would at that. The streets were dark, and a dog barked somewhere. Cei yawned, ready for his own bed; it must be close on the third hour of the morning.

  Someone hailed him, the voice loud in the night silence, a guttural accent, Friesian. Curious, Cei strolled across the cobbled road, avoiding piles of dung. He nodded a greeting. “You’re open late, taverner.”

  The man was agitated, fingering the grubby apron covering his ample middle. “You are Lord Cei? I recognise you, you drink here with other officers.”

  Cei nodded again, amiably. “You serve good wine and hot food.”

  The man was pleased at that, but his smile of thanks faded with the return of unease. “I wish to close, it is so late, but I do not know what I should do with him.” He pointed a stubby finger at a cavalry officer lying slumped across a table in the shadows beyond the open door.

  Annoyed that one of the men should drink so heavily as to reach this state, Cei said harshly, “I’d toss him in the street if I were you. Let the sewer muck sober him.” He made to move on. As the man said, it was late.

  The taverner stepped hastily in his path and shook his head, embarrassed.

  With a short, exasperated sigh, Cei strode over to the drunkard. As he was about to shake the man’s shoulder, he broke into a chuckle. Ah no, the poor tavern keeper could not give this one to the street.

  Roused by Cei’s persistent nudging, Arthur staggered unsteadily to his feet.

  “He has drunk most of my best wine.” The Friesian was hovering, put out by all this inconvenience.

  Cei felt in his belt pouch and produced a small, battered coin. “For your trouble,” he said, placing a supportive arm around Arthur’s waist.

  It was only a short journey to the palace but, hampered as he was by the almost dead weight of his companion, it took Cei a while to reach their assigned rooms, where, laughing, he waved Arthur’s sleepy servant aside. “Go back to your bed, I shall tend your master.” He seated Arthur on the bed and pulled off his boots. “An enjoyable evening, I assume. Trust you to spoil it by getting yourself over full of wine.”

  “I talked to them of the horses, Cei.” Arthur’s words were slurred. “Cunedda agrees with me. Think on it – he agrees.” He laughed with pleasure and fell backwards across the bed.

  Cei frowned. “Is that why you are so drunk? Filled your belly to toast the hooves? Well, ‘tis a good enough reason.” Cei began to unbuckle the tunic, but Arthur, clumsily sitting up, stayed his hand.

  “Why am I such a fool? My head has been so filled with dreams of cavalry that I never stopped to consider other details of life. My life. Hers.”

  “What are you rambling about, man? You have drunk over much.”

  “You would not believe a dowsing with a water bucket could create so much feeling, would you? She’s a woman grown now and,” Arthur paused, eyes as blurred as his speech, “and I love her.” He grabbed at Cei’s shoulders, pulling him close. Cei wrinkled his nose at the stink of wine.

  “She makes me laugh, Cei, makes me feel I could take on Vortigern and his damned Saex friends single handed.” Arthur waved a hand expressively, then toppled sideways. He looked blankly up at Cei, not seeing him, filled only with a sense of emptiness, of great loss. “All that, and I can’t have her.”

  “Who? Cannot have who? Ah, you are talking daft.”

  Suddenly Arthur was asleep where he lay, lost in a swirling world of heavy wine, where hooves drummed and the dragon streamed before them. Swords clashed and glistened in sunlight. Sweat and blood, men fighting. Mingled, in the strange way of dreams, with a girl’s shout of defiance drifting into laughter. Her face floating above the Pendragon’s banner. An angry young girl, copper hair tumbling, face grubby, a bucket of swilling water in her hand; changing, shifting to a woman grown, serene and beautiful. Gwenhwyfar.

  XXIV

  Gwenhwyfar did not particularly like shopping; the noise and the bustle around the stalls and crowded, smelly streets held no appeal. She was not a frivolous young woman and usually took minor interest in the acquisition of jewels or cloth and coloured ribbons. It therefore came as some surprise to her cousin, Ceridwen, when Gwenhwyfar enthusiastically agreed to go to the market with her – all the more so when she seemed to be enjoying herself.

  The market of Londinium was, of course, far larger than their few street stalls at Caer Arfon. So many traders, so much to choose from! Pots and pans of glass or clay, fine gems, polished beads; materials for gown or cloak, silks and wools, every kind of weave in reds and blues and greens – a rainbow of colour. Spices and herbs, cooked food, raw food; shellfish, meat, gape-eyed sea fish, river fish, pasties and pies, sausages and cakes. Wine and ale. The girls ambled with the flow of the crowd, giggling together or prodding and poking, curious about some item, asking the price, wrinkling their noses at the telling. Too high!

  Gwenhwyfar had bought ribbons – green, to match her eyes – Ceridwen, a fine bracelet crafted in jet and gold. They were making their way along the wider of the streets to a little tavern to take a tankard of wine and a pastry, when Gwenhwyfar squeaked, grabbed Ceridwen’s arm and pointed some distance ahead, through the milling of the Londinium crowd.

  Arthur coming towards them, strolling beside the man Cei, his red cloak swinging, his dark head bobbing above the crush of shoppers and traders. He stopped, pointing to a stall. Gwenhwyfar lost sight of him, then spotted him again behind a trundled handcart. Impulsively, she called out, standing on toe-tip, waving to catch his attention. Twice only had she seen him these past five days since the banquet, both times at a distance making it impossible to speak. He could not have heard or seen her this time either, for he turned without acknowledgement and disappeared down a narrow side street.

  “Whatever are you doing?” said a contemptuous female voice, directly behind Gwenhwyfar. “Jumping up and down as if you have fleas in your undergarments!”

  Gwenhwyfar whirled embarrassed, and found herself looking into the disdainful face of the Princess Winifred. She stammered, “I thought I saw someone I knew.” Bear’s breath! Why did she have to justify herself?

  Winifred poked with a slender bejewelled finger at some saffron mater
ial on a stall near by, then peered haughtily along the crowded street. “Well, she has gone now, dear, whoever she was.”

  Condescending bitch. Gwenhwyfar would have enjoyed saying that aloud. Best not, keep smiling. To her dismay Winifred linked arms and began walking with her; people melting aside with barely concealed scowls to allow them through. Winifred and her mother were tolerated but not liked, save by the merchants, who were falling over themselves to show their wares.

  Gwenhwyfar twisted her neck to look down the side street into which Arthur had passed. He had gone; the street was empty except for a woman with three squawking children, and a one-legged beggar. She did not notice Winifred also looking, for she too had seen Arthur, realised whose attention Gwenhwyfar had been attempting to catch. A smile slid across her mouth. Oh, he had gone – what a shame.

  Until the night of the banquet she had not paid much mind to the Pendragon, had tried to avoid him. Her father detested ‘that boy’, as he called him, and her cousin Melwas seized every opportunity to be as nasty as possible to Arthur. Some kin feud between them, to do with Arthur’s father Uthr and Melwas’s elder brother Gorlois. Silly, why dwell on the doings of men grown cold in their graves? However, days that would otherwise have been extremely boring, often proved most amusing whenever Melwas and the Pendragon were both at court, though such occasions were rare.

  Melwas was not here at present, was away about the King’s private business. He was expected back soon. Winifred hoped so: these tedious days of Council needed livening up.

  The sneering attitude of father and cousin, both highly influential in Winifred’s upbringing, had caused her own low opinion of Arthur. With that long nose and perpetual scowl he was not a handsome young man, but Gwenhwyfar’s attraction to him had caused her to look again and see for the first time the character beneath his unprepossessing appearance. Discovering unexpectedly that Arthur had a possibility of being a most exciting man.

  Resigned to her unwanted companion, Gwenhwyfar walked with Winifred, feigning polite interest in her purchases, answering yes or no to irritatingly personal questions. She would see him again, happen on the morrow, the Sabbath.

  And she did.

  Vortigern’s Christian church was a splendid building, richly decorated and furnished to show his devotion to the faith. Everything about the King was deception. All attending the Council were expected at the bishop’s special service. Chance put Gwenhwyfar opposite Arthur. Her heart raced as she took her place on the women’s side and saw him standing there, tall and impressive, very bored.

  Once, Gwenhwyfar raised her eyes to venture a glance across at him; she looked away again quickly, a blush heating her cheeks as she saw him watching her. She stood after that with head lowered, telling herself not to act like a moonstruck child. But how the thrill of his nearness made her tingle! Only a few feet away, she could practically hear his voice, smell him, touch him.

  Winifred also enjoyed the service. For the same reasons as Gwenhwyfar.

  There was an undignified rush from the church, Vortigern’s Council, many of them non Christians, retreating, eager for the pure air and sunshine. Eager, too, for the entertainment laid on for their benefit at Vortigern’s expense. There were to be games of skill and challenge, displays by gymnasts and riders, then, later, feasting and dancing. The King was keen to keep his Council sweet. The congenial air of festival rarely failed.

  Gwenhwyfar, swept forward with the crush away from Arthur, was annoyed to see that Winifred had managed to waylay him. She did not see him again until the mounted displays.

  His cavalry gave a daring exhibition of equestrian skills: throwing spears and fighting a mock battle; leaping on and off their horses at varying speeds and picking up articles from the ground at a gallop. One rider seemed to slip, went down under the horse’s belly beneath the pounding feet, emerged on the other side, pulling himself back into the saddle, grinning. A horseman’s trick. Arthur took the salute, resplendent in parade armour. Gwenhwyfar clapped and cheered, proud of him and his men.

  And then the feasting, the banqueting hall filled with men and women, loud talk and much laughter. To her disgust, Gwenhwyfar found herself seated with the unwed women. Winifred, with her sickly sweet smile, beckoned her to sit beside her, welcomed her to the table. Why the princess was going out of her way to give this impression of friendship, Gwenhwyfar had not yet decided. It was so obviously false.

  As usual for Winifred, she monopolised the conversation throughout the evening, whispering, not so quietly, various uncomplimentary remarks about her father’s guests. Gwenhwyfar paid her scant attention beyond the demand of politeness, concentrating on her food and the entertainment – until Winifred said, “Ah, Lord Arthur has at last joined my father’s captains, he can never arrive on time.” She giggled, coyly covering her mouth. “Did you see how he barely took his eye off me in church this morning?”

  The others – silly creatures Gwenhwyfar thought them – giggled. One said, “Happen he has design on you, Princess. After all, you and he are a most eligible pair.”

  Fury, most of it born of jealousy, swept over Gwenhwyfar like a surge tide. She announced without thinking, “It was hard to miss you. That gown you wore was bright enough to eclipse the sun.”

  A hush fell over the girls.

  Winifred looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Were you by chance speaking to me?”

  Gwenhwyfar covered a stammer, said quickly with a glowing smile, “How could even a blind man have missed your beauty?” She cringed in self disgust at her enforced ingratiation. That was close! You did not cross Winifred, any more than you would taunt a basking adder.

  The Princess extended her hand and patted Gwenhwyfar maternally, as if sharing some great secret. “Arthur has a liking for a pretty face. Mine, I have noticed, he likes in particular.” To the others, “I would not object to him taking a liking to more than just my face.”

  They tittered, simpering at Winifred’s humour. Gwenhwyfar held a fixed smile, and with difficulty, her tongue still. Arthur, she hoped, would have preference for a better woman than Vortigern’s Saex bitch.

  It was herself he had watched, she was sure. But then, was she? The flicker of doubt, once planted, grew rapidly, refusing to be uprooted. Winifred had wealth and status. Na, Arthur would not be swayed by those. It was she, Gwenhwyfar, he wanted. They were pledged – albeit a childhood promise – but made, all the same, with sincerity. He had not sought her out, though – had, now she thought of it, avoided her.

  Winifred sipped wine, her expression smug. She had been right, then, the rustic girl Gwenhwyfar was indeed infatuated with Arthur. Were the feelings returned? She must find out. The Pendragon was suddenly more than a passing interest. Winifred wanted him for her own – and Winifred was used to getting what she wanted.

  Soon the dancing began. Young men warmed to the women’s side and whisked chosen partners off to whirl the haze of food and drink from their heads. A knot of ambitious hopefuls clustered around the princess, who flashed her blue eyes at the flattery, making an elaborate game of choosing. She was ten and five years of age, ripe for betrothal, and this might be the only chance for many a chieftain’s son to obtain a royal torque.

  A shadow fell over the clustered group. Standing to one side, Gwenhwyfar looked up into Arthur’s hawk eyes. He held her gaze briefly, then, coming to a decision, smiled warmly and walked towards her.

  “You watched the display this afternoon?” he asked, making a surety of opening a conversation.

  “Aye,” Gwenhwyfar murmured as she bobbed a slight greeting; “your men are most impressive.”

  Motioning her admirers aside, Winifred bustled forward and laid her hand on Arthur’s arm, her smile dazzling. “It was superb, my Lord! You rode so… manfully.” She looked up and down his body, her meaning plain, as she threaded her arm tight through his. “Let us dance,” she said, leading him to join the whirl of laughing men and women. She glanced back at Gwenhwyfar with a victorious toss of her head. />
  Gwenhwyfar’s body was shaking, her throat tight as if someone were steadily pressing two thumbs on her windpipe. The bitch. The fatherless tavern slut. The…

  A voice, Ceridwen’s, remote and distant. “Gwenhwyfar? Are you all right?”

  Gwenhwyfar ignored her cousin’s concern. For agonising minutes she stood rigid, fists clenched, watching as Arthur responded to Winifred’s blatant flirting. His hands around her waist, he was laughing, his eyes never leaving the generous swell of her bosom under the thin silk garment that did little to conceal the delights beneath.

  After much stamping and laughter the dance came to a breathless end, the dancers breaking apart, dizzy from the pounding rhythm.

  Gwenhwyfar seethed as Winifred demurely whispered something into Arthur’s ear, watched helpless as he nodded and guided her out to the terrace, disappearing into the darkness of the gardens beyond.

  Unable to hold back the tears of anger and hurt disappointment, Gwenhwyfar turned and fled.

  XXV

  It was quite late before the sounds of revelry began to fade away. Midnight had passed before the stragglers took their leave and those staying at the palace had staggered to their beds. Winifred sat stiff and silent, allowing her maidservant to undress her. If the girl noticed her mistress’s disarranged hair or the bruising to her neck, she made no comment. She dismissed the girl, but did not go immediate to bed, sat naked before her mirror inspecting the marks on her white skin, lowering the polished bronze to examine the reflection of her breasts. Suddenly, she hurled the thing from her, smashing it against the far wall. Damn! Damn him and his insolence!

  In a few months she would be ten and six, the age her mother had lured Vortigern to the marriage bed. If Rowena could do it, then so could her daughter. She would not be spurned by some – some boy. Going to her bed, Winifred drew the covers close around her skin. The feel of his hands on her breasts, his breath and lips on her neck, had been so very good. She pounded the pillow. Why then had he turned away from her and walked away? He had wanted her, that was plain – but he had walked away.