The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  “What in the name of God are you doing here?” He strode towards his sister, wearing a frown of disapproval. “What are you about, girl?”

  Smiling a greeting, Gwenhwyfar explained half truthfully, “I woke early, brother. As it seems to promise a fair day, I thought to watch the sun rise.”

  Enniaun’s face softened and he patted her shoulder absently as he used to do when she was a child. In British, he said, “I understand, lass. We are all feeling the need for Gwynedd.”

  Startled, Gwenhwyfar’s eyes fluttered to his. Until that moment she had not realised that they had exchanged their native British tongue for formal Latin.

  Suddenly, unbidden, she longed for the mountains and green valleys of Gwynedd. For the wild sea, hurrying streams and lazy rivers. Enniaun was right: she did feel that special longing, that inner something that went deeper than mere homesickness. “I want to go home,” she said.

  “We all do, but it cannot be, not yet. I leave immediate with Da and Etern and our men to go north. The Saex have pushed across the frontier and have run riot near Camulodunum.” He did not add the rest, that farmsteads had been burnt to the ground, villas looted, the men slaughtered and the women and children taken for pleasure or slaves. There were several wealthy estates in that area, and many of their owners were here at Council. Only one had brought his family.

  To conceal the words unspoken, Enniaun confided, “Da is bound to serve his given days with Vortigern’s army – he thought to take advantage of this opportunity to ride beneath the Pendragon’s command. We,” he indicated Cei, who had come from Arthur’s chamber at the sound of voices, “came to rouse him.”

  As he spoke, Enniaun turned, Arthur was emerging from his room dressed in undertunic and bracae, his eyes tired and bruised, his face pinched, grey and unshaven. Four angry scratches stood out on his cheek. The blood was fresh, barely congealed. Only an animal’s claws or a woman’s nails could cause such a wound. Gwenhwyfar’s quick mind considered it unlikely that he had suddenly developed a fondness for a pet cat.

  A thrust of vindictive resentment stabbed at her – serve him damned right! If he will have a woman with him for the night – changing, within a heartbeat to a plunge of pity. He looked so haggard and lonely.

  Arthur spread his hands. “I heard you talking, Enniaun. Forgive my appearance, Lady Gwenhwyfar, I thought someone I have no wish to see had come.” He shrugged and added as if it would explain everything, “I have not slept well.”

  “Na?” said Gwenhwyfar in a tone that questioned the excuse. “I find the most effective method of dealing with mares that ride the night is to turn over and ignore them.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow and nodded ruefully. “If I ever find myself in a similar situation again, I shall remember your advice.”

  Enniaun glanced shrewdly at his sister, more aware than Arthur of her way of thinking. Something did not quite ring true about her air of innocence. Bushy eyebrows drawing together, he wagged a warning finger at her. “We do not want unsavoury rumours spreading, Gwenhwyfar.”

  Was her brother referring to Arthur’s woman or this Saex trouble? Both?

  “Vortigern wishes us to delay, discuss tactics before we ride to teach these Saex a lesson.” Unaware that Gwenhwyfar might be alerted to that other reason, Arthur was talking about the uprising. “But Vortimer has decided to leave now. It’s more prudent to head north before too many Saex learn of our coming.”

  “The Queen does not rise until well after the sun,” Gwenhwyfar replied with straight innocence.

  “That, young lady,” Arthur replied, grinning, “could be considered a treasonable statement.” He winked, “But well said.” He began to walk back into his chamber. “I must dress, we are delaying over long.”

  “Arthur!” On impulse, Gwenhwyfar ran forward to pluck at his sleeve. He was a tall man, standing two fingers above six feet, his height as imposing as his direct gaze. The crown of Gwenhwyfar’s head barely reached his chest. She looked up at him. “There’s a man, drunk, in the room opposite yours.” She pointed. “He looks as though he may be one of Vortigern’s Saex.” She felt suddenly foolish. Why would Arthur want to know where a drunken heathen lay? She dropped her eyes, looking at her neat Roman shoes, and said with a stammer, I thought you might need to know.”

  He laughed, a single snort, and putting a finger under her chin tilted her face up. Almost kissed her. “I know. He serves the King, but he also spies for the Queen.” Arthur chuckled, happy to share a secret. “He was well pleased with a jug of strong ale to keep his solitary watch company.” He grinned. “Given by one of my men.” He glanced at Enniaun and Cei. “Keeping these spies occupied is costing me a fortune!”

  Arthur took Gwenhwyfar’s fingers in his hand and rubbed his sword-callused touch over her softness. Her skin was cold, but her answering grip, firm and steady. “My thanks for your concern.”

  Her answer was a radiant smile. She wanted to ask whether it was the princess he preferred; wanted to say that she loved him, said only, “Take care while you are gone.”

  The need to hold Gwenhwyfar in his arms and keep her close became almost too great for Arthur to bear. She was not like the others – no traps or deceit from Gwenhwyfar, no pretty smiles hiding malicious intent. Her earnest green eyes were gazing up at him, trusting and loving. He wanted to say so much to her, but how could he? What would be the point in saying that he loved her? It would only bring her more pain.

  He forced a less potent, a more brotherly smile. “Aye, my Cymraes fach, I always do.” He whirled away before he lost all sense and committed some other stupid deed. He had made one mistake that could send far-reaching ripples into the future months this ill-starred night already. There must not be another.

  May 453

  XXVII

  The attack was swift, unexpected, all the more startling because Arthur was lost in thought, pacing the new-cleared floor of a thirty-foot-deep defensive earthwork. The madness of the past two weeks had been fraught with chaos. The desperate ride north to Camulodunum, the assessing of damage. Men attacked, killed. Homesteads and farms burnt. A frenzy of bloody skirmishes.

  Vortigern had not heeded warnings, left matters too late, and the Angli had swung together to unite their strength in a bid for independent supremacy. In a frenzy of bloodlust, they moved swiftly towards the gentle ridge that shouldered between the flat marshlands and dense woodlands of what had once been the territory of Queen Boudica’s proud people, the Iceni. One satisfaction for Arthur: he – and others of his thinking – had been arguing for months that this would happen soon. It had needed only one man to rise into a position of power, one man to fire the young warriors and set the blood pulsing in the old ones. Icel was such a man – an English princeling seeking himself a kingdom.

  English, Angli – how Vortigern stuck obstinately to the correct use of title! His wife and her kin were Jutes, this Icel an Anglian, and the settlers sprawling along the coast down towards Londinium were Saxons –‘Saex’ being the popular word used by the British for the lot of them. A loose, derisive play on the term for a foreigner and for the Saxon short bladed sword.

  Arthur bent to retrieve a lump of flint from the wall of the ditch, tugged at it, surprised at how firm the nodule was lodged. He pulled again, the thing coming free suddenly, showering him in a mist of chalk dust. He sneezed, wiped whitened fingers on his bracae that were already white-coated. The damned stuff was so dry, hard baked by the early heat and lack of spring rain. It got everywhere – in your boots, your hair, even inside your undergarments. The men had stripped off their tunics and were working bare-skinned under the scorching sun.

  He tossed the chunk of rock onto the pile of debris. This earthwork had lain abandoned for centuries, disused since the days when the Iceni lost the need for man-made boundaries to the supremacy of Rome. He sneezed again, cursed. It was a damn awful job clearing this scrub-choked, twenty-foot-wide ditch. And a waste of energy. The construction was wrongly sited for their purpose, with
the rampart on the north side. It had been built as a gateway straddling the ancient Iceni Way. Built against an enemy coming from the south-west, not one firm entrenched to the north-east.

  He turned to face the towering bank, shielding his eyes against the glare of new-cut chalk. All day had they been digging, all day in this insufferable heat, with no shade – and, with thirty men working, only a few handful of yards yet completed. Mithras’ Blood, it would take months to reopen the entire seven mile length.

  Winifred had not tattled to her father, nor her mother – he was certain of that. Could he trust Cei and Enniaun to remain silent? He had been indiscreet in telling them the truth of that night, but then, what use making excuses for the state they had found him in?

  He had best go up to check the sentries in a moment, ensure they were not drowsing.

  As for Vortigern’s Saex spies, Arthur had handled them easily enough for months now, ensuring only harmless information filtered back to the King. Or Queen. That she had the upper hand at court was undeniable. It would be the Queen who was the more likely to find out about him and Winifred. Na, it was safe kept. The girl could not betray him without betraying herself, and she had the more to lose. He laughed, walked along to the uncleared area ahead, where straggling bushes grew rampant and wild flowers clustered in brilliant profusion. Which was the greater? For her to have lost her virginity, or for him to lose his balls were her parents to find out? He pointed at a path of tufted grass along the lower slope, shouted a reprimand at the man who had missed its clearing, received a returned scowl of silent annoyance. The men thought as he did.

  Ah, forget that night. It was a thing done – badly done, aye, but finished with.

  Arthur plucked a yellow flower, idly wondering whether it had a name. Gwenhwyfar would know. She knew about plants and herbs. He tore the petals off one by one – Winifred, Gwenhwyfar, Winifred, Gwenhwyfar – threw the thing testily aside. Forget her, forget Gwenhwyfar. She was lost to him.

  As the first flickering, swift-moving shadows topped the bank and began slithering fast down, with the startled cries of sweating, digging men and the whish and thud of spears brutally destroying or maiming, Arthur had a fleeting, incongruous thought, forget Gwenhwyfar? How?

  He had his sword out, was rushing to meet a Saex, full clad in war gear. They came together, Arthur’s weapon parried by the Anglian’s shorter blade. Arthur had no shield. He leapt aside from the returning thrust and yelled for help. Ducking low, Etern ran along the ditch, Enniaun hard at his heels, with the intention of giving aid to the men. But the Anglian Saex were swarming down the bank and coming up from the cover of uncleared undergrowth. Mithras, they were everywhere!

  The three and twenty survivors of Arthur’s work force tried to run for the weapons they had laid aside, found it useless, used instead the picks and shovels to hand.

  A Saex sword hissed along Arthur’s left arm, leaving a trail of oozing blood. Three more men fell, a fourth, a fifth. The virgin white chalk was turning a sickly, red-tinged pink. Etern was down. No time to think, just fight. Use strength and muscle, cunning and wit. The Bull! From where did they come?

  Enniaun saw Etern fall, sliced his sword through the nearest Saex abdomen and turned to aid his brother; saw, as he lunged forward, Arthur fall to his knees. He was a big man, Enniaun, tall and powerfully built with broad shoulders, his bush of red hair this day tied back in a thong against the heat. His voice echoed along the sun baked, bloodied ditch, an anguished, howled cry. Head down, shoulders hunched, he burst through the press of fighting men, uncertain where to help first. His much-loved brother or the more politically important Pendragon? A decision to be made as he ran, no time to think. Instinct.

  Etern lay motionless. Arthur, still on his knees, was grappling a Saex with his hands, his sword lost. Another Saex was standing over Etern, axe raised to strike off the lad’s head. One was coming at Arthur from behind… Enniaun shouted urgent warning to the Pendragon, caught hold of a spear as it whistled overhead, and flung the thing at the man about to mutilate Etern. Enniaun guessed his brother to be dead, so still was he lying. He took a step towards Arthur, saw him rise and swing his held opponent round, using him as a shield. A Saex short sword aimed at Arthur plunged into the wrong back. He was all right, up again, fighting. Relieved for that at least, Enniaun straddled his brother’s body, swinging left and right with his sword, slicing through air and bone, whatever came within reach of the blade’s vicious bite. Stories would be told later, around the Anglian hearth fires, of a red-haired giant among the British who killed with a magical, shining sword that spat blood.

  For a moment Arthur held on to the dead Saex, manoeuvring behind him, gaining time to reach for a weapon. His fingers clenched, mercifully, round his own sword; he shoved the cumbersome body into his attacker and drove his blade deep into the entangled man, withdrew it and turned to face a new opponent. Something hit him from behind with a sharp thump to the back of the head, the butt of a spear knocking sense and awareness from him. He sprawled forward, the turmoil and shouting a haze of dizzy unreality.

  Enniaun cried out, yelled for Arthur to get up, stepped forward intending to shield the Pendragon, felt a blow to his shoulder, saw a fountain of blood and felt a curious numbness down his right arm. He stopped, looking in amazement at a spear tip that had passed clean through the flesh of his shoulder and was protruding obscenely from his tunic. Enniaun gaped at the slimy redness on the metal, not quite believing the oddity of having a spear sticking through his own body. The weirdest thing, it did not hurt, not much anyway.

  There came more noise, shouting from the top of the bank, the bloodlust cries of battle, shadows and forms moving, darting. Enniaun saw nothing of it; he crumpled against the wall of red spattered white chalk, felt and saw nothing more. Arthur, too, saw nothing of the frenzied activity, heard nought, save a wheezing breath in his own throat accompanied by a swirl of brightness fizzing behind his eyes. He was aware of someone standing over him, beginning to strip him of tunic and boots. His fingers moved, stiff, slow, closed around the smooth, hard surface of a rock, a lump of flint. He had it in his hand, brought his arm up, slowly, so slowly from the thump – thumping in his head, the burn of torn flesh along his arm. Up, lift up. The rock was so heavy, so damned heavy. He came up with it, hand pounding into the head of the thieving Saex squatting over him. A dull crunch, a muted gasp. Blood. Blood everywhere.

  Curious, Arthur sat, staring at the flint in his hand, at the yellow and brown mixing of colour, at the exposed, cold and dark interior of the stone. At the razor-sharp edge that had sliced, as sharp as any honed sword, through the face of the Saex. There was hardly anything left of the man’s features, the eye and jaw gone. Spinning and whirling sensations brought vomit to Arthur’s throat. He dropped the flint, lay down and closed his eyes, vaguely aware the battle cries were no longer of the Saex, but British. That the Saex were fleeing along the ditch, scrabbling up the steep bank. Idly he wondered if Icel himself had taken part in the fighting.

  A chill breeze woke him. His body was hot; sweat and the stink of blood and vomit assailed his nostrils. He opened his eyes, grimaced at the mess spewed down his chest and legs, hoping it wasn’t all his own contribution. Surely some of the blood came from a Saex?

  “So you’ve decided to wake at last?”

  Arthur looked up bleary-eyed, saw Etern squatting before him.

  He said nothing, stared puzzled, one eye half shut, the other eyebrow raised. Looking sideways, he saw Enniaun lying there as grimed as himself, eyes closed, but breathing steady. Back to Etern.

  “I had hoped,” he said, mouth dry, rasping as if it were full of chalk dust, “the next world would at least have a decent bathhouse. It seems not.”

  Etern laughed and playfully ruffled Arthur’s chalk-matted hair. “We need wait and see. Not for us the knowing this time, my friend.”

  A gruffer voice, ahead and above. “You will wish you were in the other world, lad, when I finish with you.” Etern d
rew his mouth down in a warning expression; Arthur forced his throbbing head up and saw Cunedda silhouetted against the evening sun. He stood, legs spread, fists bunched against his hips, stern and angry. Very angry.

  “It came unexpected,” Arthur said, without much conviction. A poor excuse and he knew it. Knew also he deserved the merciless tongue-lashing Cunedda launched into. There was, could be, no excuse for the danger he had placed his men in, for failing to supervise the sentries – paid for by their murder as they dozed in the shade of their own propped-up shields. For the carelessness of having no weapons to hand… the list went on and on.

  Arthur sat listening, taking each verbal blow with a mounting sense of shame. He had been lax, careless. Men lay dead through his indifference to safety. He had not wanted this job of ditch clearing, had fussed and grumbled, and disregarded all the rules. You did not strip off your armour so close to enemy territory. You did not post a few idle sentries as sole guard along the ridge. You did not heap your weapons yards away. If Cunedda had not happened by on routine patrol… aye, well. A lesson in command learnt. A bitter, sharp lesson that had resulted in the death of over half his men, a jagged wound along his arm, Enniaun alive but wounded, and Etern with a lump to the back of his head the size of a hen’s egg.

  Oh, they would talk and laugh about the near disaster later. Arthur’s first and last mistake. Etern’s life saved by being struck unconscious, and Enniaun’s shoulder, which for the rest of his life was likely to ache whenever a cold easterly wind blew. But there was no laughter at this moment on Cunedda’s outraged face, or in his harsh voice.

  Nor was there laughter for Arthur, who, when Cunedda walked angrily away, hauled himself to his feet to supervise the burying of the dead; men under his command. Men he had not commanded well enough, who, through his negligence, had died.