The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Whatever did that Gwynedd girl see in him? An arrogant, self-opinionated, ugly son of a rebel. Winifred drew up her knees, hugging them close. It had been so easy to lure Arthur into the seclusion of the palace gardens. She had backed away, of course, as he went to kiss her, but then an unfortunate slip of the hand had caught her bodice on one of her rings. Naturally, he had helped her release it.

  Why had he suddenly swung away, left her alone, her breasts exposed, and so very humiliated? She lay a long while, tossing, unable to get comfortable, unable to sleep. Her body felt hot, aching. She had enjoyed Arthur’s touch, had wanted more. Still wanted more.

  Her father disliked Arthur because he feared him – feared him because the Pendragon was a threat. Vortigern rarely made political mistakes, and never the same one twice over. He had let Uthr out of his sight; the son must be close watched. An idea germinated. What if Arthur were to be even more closely watched?

  Winifred sat up, hugging her pillow to her chest. There had been talk again lately between her parents on the subject of her marriage. The arranged betrothal, some months past, she had put an end to. If they seriously assumed she was going to some crusted old veteran’s bed, then they had best think again. Winifred shivered with distaste, recalling the slimy feel of his dribbling mouth, and his rough, gnarled hands. A pity the poor old fool had suffered that seizure of the stomach. He ought never have eaten fruit before retiring. Winifred sniggered. Who would have thought that one small drip of poison on a single fruit could create such interesting, and rewarding, results?

  Her idea was growing, becoming more appealing. This latest talk was something about a chieftain of her grandsire’s. What – wed one of Hengest’s Jutes and live in a midden-hut Grubenhauser? Ah, no, not when the Pendragon was on offer.

  She slid from the bed, wrapped a light cloak around her and padded from the chamber, her bare feet making no sound on the tiled floor. What better way for her father to keep Arthur under observation? As son-by-law he would be chained as firm as a tethered bull. And poor Gwenhwyfar? Winifred tossed back her head. Poor Gwenhwyfar, her lover lost to the Princess Winifred.

  Arthur stirred, roused by the thin shaft of light as the door quietly opened and closed. He mumbled, moving restlessly in his sleep. Winifred held her breath. He must not wake. She clutched her cloak tighter around her throat, though it was not the chill of night that scuttled over her naked flesh. She stood a while, her breath coming fast between parted lips, her gaze fixed on the dark shape asleep in the bed.

  In her own chamber, this had all seemed so easy. She slid the cloak from her shoulders, let it fall to the floor with a gentle swish. For a few heartbeats she almost retreated back to the soft, safe glow of the corridor beyond the door. The reality of doing, more daunting than she thought. Doubts came, followed rapidly by conviction. Rowena had ensnared Vortigern by the use of her body – and Winifred was every inch her mother’s daughter.

  Letting go the cloak she padded across the floor. Arthur lay face down, his back uncovered, one arm flung carelessly above his head. His dark hair, curling slightly and long enough to touch his broad shoulders, spread in a tangle across the pillow.

  Winifred resisted the temptation to run a finger down his spine. She had been kissed and fondled by young men, but had never allowed them to go over-far. It amused her to encourage their manhood to rise and then push them from her, leaving them frustrated and rejected. As Arthur had rejected her. No one spurned Winifred. No one.

  Deftly, she twitched back the covers and slid her body next to his. He stirred, stretched his arm to her, encircling her waist, pulling her closer, mumbling in dazed pleasure as her warmth touched him. Lazily he opened his eyes, lingering over the sensation, half unconscious, of soft flesh beneath his touch – then sat upright as realisation slammed him awake.

  “Blood of Mithras!” he swore, recognising her. “What in the Bull’s name are you playing at?”

  Sweetly, “I am not playing, my Lord.”

  “If your father discovers you have been here he will flay me alive.”

  I don’t doubt it, she mused, said confidently, “He will not discover it; no one saw me come.” She walked her fingers down the dark hairs of his chest and across his flat stomach. “You have a fine body; you ought use it, not deny its need. Do you not think the same of mine?”

  Irritably, he brushed her hand aside and rolled off the bed. “Get out, Winifred, before…”

  “Before what?” She stretched the length of the rumpled sheets, her thighs and breasts glistening in the dim lamplight, ran a fingernail seductively from her throat to the soft patch of pale hair that curled enticingly between her legs.

  Arthur swallowed, at a loss, unsure what to do.

  “You wanted me earlier,” Winifred persisted, her voice silky. She beckoned, more sure of herself now, enjoying this new game. “You all but stripped me naked to touch me in the privacy of the gardens.”

  “I was drunk, but still knew when to call a halt.” Arthur ran his hand through his hair. He could not bring himself to look away from her slender, so enticing body.

  “Then are you no longer drunk?” she purred, raising herself on one elbow. “I am, with desire for you.”

  Arthur swung away, punching the air with a clenched fist. “You are a maiden – and more to the point, Vortigern’s daughter.”

  “A maiden?” She had expected that, had used the same excuse herself on occasion when men became too insistent. “What makes you so sure?” She watched him from beneath lowered lashes, recognised the hesitation and pushed on. “I was betrothed not so long since. He was a dear man – older, but experienced, and very, very good to me.” She flicked her gaze at him, pouted seductively. “How were we to know he would die before we could legalise our union in the marriage bed?”

  She rose slowly in one fluid movement, crossed to Arthur and touched him intimately, a butterfly touch. She smiled. “It would seem you are interested after all.” She took his hand, kissed the palm and placed it on her breast. “There – round and smooth, awaiting your attention.” Her arms encircled Arthur’s waist, lips brushing his, and as her body pressed against him his response became undeniable.

  With a low moan Arthur lifted her, his mouth covering hers, and carried her to the bed. Her body, young and new, responded delightfully to his lovemaking and at her urging he probed into her, her legs twining around him, drawing him in. She cried out in pleasure.

  He froze. She had lied to him, the bitch! Astride her, he stared in disbelief, stunned that he had fallen so easily for her trickery.

  Winifred moaned again, impatiently shifting beneath his body, the movement fuelling his need. Angrily he thrust harder, taking her maidenhood as savagely as he could.

  Spent, panting, he rolled from her, horrified. “Mithras, get you from here, back to your bed. Say nought of this!”

  “Must I go so soon?” She stretched her aching legs. “Can we not have more?” The afterglow of passion still lingered with a delicious throbbing. It had felt so good; why had she denied herself such pleasure for so long?

  “That once should never have occurred. If your father…”

  Winifred sat up slowly and leant back against the pillows. “Finds out? He would only hear of it from you, or me. You would not tell him – and I?” She slid down into the bed. “Will I ever have need to tell him?”

  Cynically, “No doubt you could find some reason.”

  “My father wishes me to marry. I will wed, but one of my own choosing.”

  Arthur laughed. “There are many who would willingly take a girl’s maidenhood, but not so many who would accept used goods as wife – save those eager for a fat dowry to compensate.” He smiled at a private jest. He could use such a gift… but he was not yet that desperate.

  Winifred’s next words dispersed the private humour. “Or if a man and woman pledge themselves by the giving and taking of a first time.” She was finding it difficult to steady her voice. She had been so certain she could win him –
as her mother had won Vortigern; only, these things were not quite as easy as she had expected. “I will make you a good wife, Arthur.” She stood up and moved towards him, resting her hands on his chest. “In time, an even better queen.”

  “I do not want a half Saex bitch as wife. Or queen.”

  She hit him then, the palm of her hand slapping hard against his cheek.

  “You bastard!”

  Arthur’s expression remained impassive, inscrutable. He nodded once, with a thin, set smile, one eye half shut in that insolent way of his. “That’s right.”

  Furious, she clawed his cheek with her nails, leaving bloody scratch marks. “No one,” she breathed through flaring nostrils, “shall dare talk to me, Vortigern’s daughter, the Princess Winifred, in that manner.”

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders, indifferent, ambled to where his clothes lay, pulled on his bracae.

  “Princess? I assumed you were whoring this night.”

  “My father shall hear of this!” she cried furiously. “He shall know how you forced me here, took me against my will.”

  Arthur turned slowly to face her. Was this a bluff? Would she be capable of crying rape convincingly enough? He studied her a moment. Winifred was indeed a beautiful creature; aye, but the beauty was all to the surface. Beneath that soft, enticing skin oozed putrid black poison. She was capable of lying, more than capable.

  “You forget one thing, Princess.” Arthur rested his backside on the edge of a table and folded his arms. “Your father has never trusted me. He has me watched at all hours, in all places.”

  The Pendragon twitched his eyebrow higher. “All places. We were followed into the garden,” he pursed his lips, “and a guard keeps constant watch over this chamber. Ah, Winifred.” He spread his hands, palm uppermost. “Did you then, forget the spies?”

  “You lie!”

  “If you say so.”

  Winifred snatched up her cloak, flung it around herself. With a proud tilt of her head and the quirk of a triumphant smile, said, “Spies can be bribed to tell the story the way it might have been.”

  Arthur ambled to the bed, sat down, lounged back on his elbow. The self assured smile broadening, he nodded in agreement. “That they can.”

  Digesting his words, Winifred returned his direct gaze, her anger confronting his relaxed amusement. Striding towards the door, she threatened, “You will take me as wife, Pendragon, or,” she opened the door, “or I shall personally see to it you will not, shall we say, keep the equipment necessary for any other marriage.”

  She stalked out, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Arthur lay back on the bed, let his breath go slowly, stared up at the high ceiling. Two abandoned cobwebs were draped in the far corner, thick with dust. To the left, a patch of brown damp stained the yellowing plaster. A crack zigzagged from the centre almost to the wall. A crack, like the crooked scar running across Vortigern’s cheek.

  After a while, Arthur got up and sluiced cold water over his face and hair. He felt dirty and disgusted with himself. How could he have been so easily lured into this? What sickened his stomach was the knowledge that in the garden he had wanted her. He had been eager to leave that crowded room that pressed in on him, making him feel hot and trapped, had willingly walked her away to the cool shadows outside. Winifred was a beautiful young woman, her perfume pleasant, her skin soft and her response to his first, exploring kisses encouraging.

  What had excited him about her? He detested her and her family. He had lain with many women, barely remembered the first, taken with fumbling ineptitude. Ygrainne, his mother, had been furious to discover he had attended the pagan ceremony of celebrating the successful harvest. Would have been more furious had she discovered with whom he had come to manhood. A whore Uthr had once favoured, a woman three times his age with three and thirty times his experience.

  Unexpectedly, that first time came back to him as he stood with his head bowed over the basin of water in his chamber. She had caught his hand in hers, whirled him around the blazing bonfire, her great, pendulous breasts bouncing beneath her loose tunic. He had reached out tentatively to touch one, wondering what the pulpy flesh would feel like. She had laughed, scooped him up like a toddler in her arms and whisked him away into the bushes where, in the dark, other couples grunted. It had all happened so fast. He found himself lying naked atop her gross bulk mouthing at her breast like a calf at some swollen udder. He had not enjoyed the experience. Revulsion at her vast bulk and haggard age hit him the next morning, the remembrance that his father had taken her when she was young and pretty, making the act somehow obscene. He had avoided women for days afterwards.

  The next had been a slave tending the goat herds some weeks later. Cei and he had been riding, had stopped to cool the horses, noticed the woman and two girls. Cei had grinned, swung off his horse and sauntered up to the woman. In a moment he was back with the girls while the woman returned to her goats, pleased with the more than adequate payment. Cei had taken his girl, there by the side of the track, with no more thought than a dog mounting a bitch. Arthur had followed his example, rather than look foolish in front of his elder cousin. The girl had been young, a maiden, her breasts new formed. He had been clumsy, hurting her; the blood that came frightened him, and her. More spots of blood stood out on her lip where she had bitten to stop herself from crying out. Some months later he caught sight of her again, labouring beneath a heavy basket of kindling, her belly swollen.

  He wondered now, incongruously, what the child had been. Had he a daughter or son?

  How many since?

  He did not much like women. Women lied and cheated, set their little traps to lure you in, then, bang, bolted the door, leaving you shut in the dark to sweat and tremble, screaming to be let out. He reached to pour more water but his hands were shaking. He dropped the jug, bent to retrieve it and came face to nipple with one of the figures on the mosaic floor. He had not noticed the naked women before – seductive, suggestive, weaving a web of enchantment around their victim.

  Arthur’s stomach heaved. Wine and self-loathing spewed from him. “Shit,” he muttered. “Holy, bloody shit!”

  XXVI

  The first light of dawn touched the eastern skyline as Gwenhwyfar opened her eyes. She had not slept well, had dozed fitfully and tossed about, dreams drifting and ebbing; strange dreams of unknown faces and far-off exotic places. Her head aching, she slid from the bed. One or two birds were starting to sing outside, their happy chirrups incongruous against her misery. It would probably be a bright sunny day too. Lashing rain and dramatic thunder would suit her mood better. Gwenhwyfar dressed and let herself out of the room. She would walk in the gardens.

  She turned right outside the chamber, then left and left again. Na, that was wrong, she did not recognise this corridor. Damn the place! You could get lost in here, starve to death before anyone found you. Imagine stumbling for days through this maze of passages to be found, tongue hanging out, eyes bulging, gasping for water. She laughed, caught her breath suddenly listening intently.

  Footsteps walking fast – another corridor crossed this one a few yards ahead. Two men marched by, their boots rapping on the stone floor, swords and body armour jingling. One was Cei, Arthur’s cousin, the other her brother Enniaun. Their steps halted as they banged on a door.

  Curiosity getting the better of her, Gwenhwyfar ran forward to peep around the corner. If there had been an answer to their knocking, she could not have heard it. The men entered, then, “Jesu Christ, Arthur! What’s wrong? Are you ill?” After Cei’s exclamation and the sound of steps running quickly into the room, the door was firm shut and she heard nothing more.

  Hesitantly, she slipped forward and pressed her ear against the wood. Muffled voices interspersed with an occasional florid oath, then her brother’s voice. She could not catch the conversation, but it was obvious the three inside were arguing Enniaun was hurling a string of curses – followed by an equally embellished retaliation from Arthur, then a cras
h.

  Gwenhwyfar leapt back from the door in alarm, glancing quickly up and down the deserted corridor, expecting guards to come running or the door to be flung wide. Nothing happened. No one came.

  Were they fighting? Cautiously, she wedged her ear tight against the door. Their voices were a low murmur, with the occasional word spoken louder. Words like ‘irresponsible’, and ‘damn fool,’ with, intriguingly, ‘what if her father discovers…’ and ‘worse, what if there comes a child?’

  Footsteps coming towards the door… Heart pounding, Gwenhwyfar swung away seeking a hiding place. Too late to run back up the corridor and round the corner – she would be heard if not seen. A door opposite stood open, with darkness beyond. Ducking round the doorpost, she ran in and set her back flat against the wall, breathing hard, heart thumping.

  Outside, someone walked quickly away.

  What was that other noise? A grunting, laboured sound. Gwenhwyfar’s eyes were becoming used to the semi dark; the shutters at the small windows were not quite closed, dimly lighting the small room. It was bare of furniture and tapestries; nothing save a tankard on the floor and a tipped jug. A few feet away was a mound covered by a blanket, which moved slightly. Warily, Gwenhwyfar stepped forward. She peered at the bewhiskered face of some unknown man who lay on his back, mouth open, snoring gently and stinking of strong ale.

  Footsteps again. She tiptoed back to the door in time to see Enniaun re-enter Arthur’s chamber carrying what looked like a water jug. No good to stay hidden here. That man, drunk though he was, could wake at any moment. Gwenhwyfar slipped out, along the corridor, noticed an entrance ahead leading into a secluded garden courtyard. Best to go out there. Arthur’s door opened, she hesitated. Enniaun stepped out and instantly caught sight of her.