The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Vortigern had deliberately seated himself, always feeling at a disadvantage standing in Arthur’s presence. God take the man, he was so annoyingly tall! Accurately reading the fleeting signs of uncertainty on Gwynllyw’s face the King interrupted. “We hear countless tales of your fondness for women, Arthur. Rumours reach my ears. It seems fathers – and husbands – lock their womenfolk away when your turma is near.”

  Vortigern leant forward, rested an elbow on his knee; he was enjoying the Pendragon’s discomfort. “Not,” he added “from fear of the men – but from their leader. Your reputation, Pendragon, has not done you proud. I would suggest,” he wagged a warning finger, “I command, you pay less attention to the whore and spend more nights with your wife.”

  “Who is the most professional of whores!” Arthur snapped the reply without thinking.

  Vortigern was on his feet and across the room in two strides, rage contorting his aged face. “Retract that or you will face my sword!”

  Arthur stood his ground. “She was not so innocent when she came to me. Who is to say how innocent she is now?”

  “You have no proof of this.”

  Arthur smiled cynically. “Neither do you for Winifred’s fidelity – or for Gwladys’s lack of it.” He turned to Gwynllyw. “I strongly deny the charge. Whom would you trust, myself or this lying tyrant? Has he said who so generously revealed this absurd lie?”

  Vortigern, still angry, reseated himself; said offhandedly, “You were seen with Gwladys on the river bank.”

  “Is that the accusation?” Arthur roared, hands on hips, head back. “I was seen with her? Of course I was seen with her! Eira was lame, I took him to the river to cool the inflammation; Gwladys was there also, she had been swimming. Know that she was dried, dressed and about to leave for home when I arrived.” A small lie, more a stretching of the truth. “We talked a while of Eira and the horses. All quite innocent, my friend.” Arthur fixed a pleasant smile, deliberately refused to drop the affable term.

  “You were seen holding her.”

  Arthur sighed, keeping patience. “I have already admitted to being with her, Gwynllyw. It clouded over swiftly if I remember correctly, and your wife had suddenly felt the cold. I helped her on with her cloak and sent her back to the Caer. I also seem to remember she was unwell that evening. Did she not say to you she must have caught a chill?”

  Gwynllyw frowned. He did remember, quite clearly, for Gwladys had been ill during the night with sickness and sweating. “The next morning you rode out. She was,” he said, “far from well. The physician could not say what had caused the malady; he put it down to excitement over our marriage. Of course,” he added in a low hiss, “it could equally well have been guilt!”

  Arthur swung away in exasperation, hit the wall with his clenched fist. “It is for you to choose, Gwynllyw. There is no truth in this madness, and I shall willingly swear to that by whatever oath you ask.”

  Vortigern coughed, drawing their attention. “The truth may soon be revealed.” His low laugh was a horrid grating sound, as if slate were being dragged over stone. He rose, ambled to a table to fetch wine. A few steps, and he regretted rising as pain spread, the undesired discomforts of old age. With a great effort he forced his body straight, attempted to disregard the searing ache from his hip.

  “The child she bears may well resemble its father.” He poured the wine, took a deep draught from the goblet. Wiping the residue from his lips, he turned back to Arthur, a malicious smile creasing his craggy face. “Unless your wife produces an heir, Arthur – which, given the present lack of intimacy between you, I fail to see occurring – you may be forced to admit Gwladys’s child as yours. One of your bastards may have to carry the Dragon when I eventually decide to have you dispatched.”

  Arthur flew at the King, sword drawn, ready to strike. Gwynllyw and Vortigern reacted, the elder man more slowly, throwing the contents of the goblet clumsily at Arthur; Gwynllyw grappling Arthur’s arm, shouting for him to hold.

  Breathing heavily, Arthur backed off, began slowly sheathing his weapon. Vortigern smoothed his rumpled tunic, keeping excess alarm from showing in his face. He walked sedately to his chair, sat, stared unblinking at his son-by-law.

  “Should you ever attempt such an action again, Pendragon,” he said slowly, threateningly, “I shall have you flogged and torn limb from limb. Do you understand me, boy?”

  Arthur thudded his sword in the scabbard, nostrils flaring. He returned Vortigern’s snake-like stare through slit eyes. For a moment, Vortigern felt his heart lurch, his stomach turn over. He put it down to Arthur’s sudden attack, was reluctant to admit fear.

  “I understand you, Vortigern,” Arthur said in a low voice. “I assure you there will be no next time. You have my word: should I have cause to draw my sword on you again, it will be the last action you ever see.” He spun round on one heel. Ignoring the King and Gwynllyw he strode from the room, slamming the door with a resounding crash.

  Marching to his own quarters he snarled viciously at servants who crossed his path, sending them scuttling for safety in the shadows. All the while his mind turned over the possibilities. Who had reported his encounter with Gwladys? His men were loyal, not one would willingly betray him. Unwillingly? He paused in mid-stride. He thought highly of Gwynllyw, had known his father, a good, trustworthy man, but had never met the son before last summer. How in the Bull’s name could he accept these lies? He snorted scornfully. Easily! Vortigern, damn him, had been partly correct, for some did fear the coming of Arthur’s cavalry. They were a wild, fierce lot, apt to get carried away when feeling the need to relax. Was this because the men followed their leader’s example?

  The Pendragon sighed, rubbing sweating palms over the nape of his neck. Happen they did. Lately he had sought escape in an excess of drink and women.

  Gwynllyw must understand – must realise his tally of women did not, except in thought, include Gwladys. So he had made a try for her – happen he ought to admit to that, for the sake of truth. Ironic, he thought, the one time he had not lain with a woman he was accused of it!

  Washed and clad in fresh clothing, he strode from his room and made for the one allotted to Gwynllyw. So blind was his desire to talk the matter through he marched straight into the chamber, barely pausing to knock.

  He stood motionless, face drained of colour, frozen with embarrassment and incredulity at his own stupidity. It had not occurred to him Gwladys would also be using this same room. He never shared with Winifred.

  Gwynllyw’s wife stood in her undergarments. The maid squealed, hurrying to cover her mistress. Arthur made some hasty, futile apology; turned to leave, came face to face with Gwynllyw.

  There was no sound or movement, then Arthur swallowed, reached a hand forward to explain. The calm shattered.

  With a roar Gwynllyw thrust the hand aside, swung forward, driving his fist into Arthur’s belly, following through with the other, slamming knuckles into his face. Arthur doubled at the first blow, fell at the second. The ladies screamed. Gwladys, grabbing the hasty covering, darted forward to kneel at Arthur’s side.

  “Why?” she asked, dabbing at the blood pouring from his nose.

  Gwynllyw stared coldly at her. Out of spite, he kicked his boot twice into Arthur’s ribs then turned on his heel and strode for the door.

  She ran after him, catching at his sleeve, her clutched garment slipping to the floor. “What is it? What has happened?”

  He drew back his hand, made to strike her, stopped himself. “Now I understand why you wish our first-born to be given to the Church. Because it is not mine. Do you take me for such a blind fool, woman?”

  She looked blankly up at his contorted face. “I do not understand. Please, what has happened?”

  “You ask me? Best ask your lover!”

  The room reeled; Gwladys slid, legs buckling, to the floor. Her husband stared at her, spat out, “I have nothing further to say to you.”

  Arthur stumbled to his feet, clutching a
t the pain, but Gwynllyw had gone. Wiping away the blood as best he could, he turned to Gwladys. He tucked her fallen covering around her, tried to explain. “Your husband believes a gross lie. Some vicious tongue has spread a rumour that we were lovers – the child you carry is mine.”

  Her gaze flickered up to him, shifted away. He made to touch her, withdrew. Mithras! What to do? “You have been wronged, Gwladys; I promise all this shall be put to rights.”

  She said nothing, just sat staring. It was a punishment this, from God. A punishment for the sin of thought.

  Arthur spread his arms wide, then let them drop. His ribs ached; there would be bruising when he stripped off his tunic. He left the room; there was nothing he could do here.

  Fitful sleep for him that night encircled by grotesque faces. Gwladys naked before him, heavy with child, screaming. Gwynllyw slashing with bloodied sword; Vortigern watching with those red, snake eyes. Then a bed, a boy lying there frightened, a woman leaning over him, pinning him down, her head back. Laughing.

  He woke drenched in sweat. He had not dreamt of Morgause for Mithras knew how long! His hand shook as he reached for wine, feeling sick, disgusted and hopeless.

  There had been others in the dream. Women’s faces, women’s voices, cackling like hags beneath the shadow of the full moon.

  Winifred. Gwladys. He groaned, his head in his hands.

  And then another. Her face lovely, her smile gentle and kind. Gwenhwyfar. Would he never forget her?

  Not until past mid-morning did the answer hit him, as savage as the blows Gwynllyw had given. He was ploughing through ankle-deep mud beyond the stables when he halted, sending Cei bouncing off him.

  “God’s patience, Arthur!” Cei cursed, peered at him. “You have turned as white as a sun-bleached sheet. What ails you?”

  “May she rot, the bitch!” Arthur said for answer and wading forward, headed for Vortigern’s apartments. Cei shrugged, letting his friend and commander go. He knew better than to meddle in Arthur’s business. He would find out what it was all about soon enough.

  V

  Arthur burst like a charging bull into Winifred’s chamber, sending a scatter of women screaming to their feet.

  “Must a husband’s attention to his wife be greeted by such hysteria?” he growled. He surveyed them for a few heartbeats, his eyes narrowing as he found what he had suspected.

  “Get you all gone – except you.” He grabbed at a red-haired girl, pulling her, none too gently, to his side.

  “How dare you enter here in such a manner,” said Winifred, rising from the tapestry frame where she had been sewing. “My ladies will stay.” The women hovered, unsure which order to obey.

  Arthur loosened his sword in its scabbard, saw their eyes flicker from Winifred to the door. “What I have to say is for your, and her,” he shook the girl, “hearing only.” He added as a threat, “I will cut off any ears that hear what they should not. He drew the sword an inch or so. Shrill screams and squawks of alarm as the women hurried away, the last one pulling the door shut behind her. Winifred compressed her lips. The fools – did they think he was serious?

  “What is so important you must make a spectacle of yourself before my women?”

  Dragging the girl with him Arthur moved to the tapestry, peered close. A Christian scene, almost finished.

  “Pretty,” he said. “You are always, I have noticed, surrounded by pretty things, Winifred.” He jerked the girl round to stand before him. “This one is the prettiest.”

  “Take your hand off Tangwen. You are hurting her.”

  “Tangwen? Is that your name, my pretty?” He ran his finger over her cheek, down her throat almost to the swell of her breast, his voice soft and sensuous. Then with an unexpected raw edge said, “I never bothered to ask before, did I?”

  He caught a loose strand of her red hair, curling it round his fingers. “I shall do more than hurt the bloody little liar!” He thrust her from him throwing her to the floor, in the same movement caught up his short-bladed dagger. Tangwen screamed as he knelt over her and gripped her cheeks between the fingers of his left hand. “Shall I remove that wagging tongue of yours, Tangwen? Bitch! You deserve to have your throat cut!”

  The girl squirmed, shook her head, pleading for mercy with her eyes. She shrieked as he dealt her a stinging blow.

  “How dare you!” shouted Winifred, darting forward. “How dare you enter my chamber like a madman and attack my slave.” She clutched up the unfinished tapestry, flew at Arthur and hurled the thing down upon his back. The blow caused no harm, but Arthur released the girl.

  Standing slowly, breathing hard, he glared at his wife. “How dare I?” he asked in a voice low and dangerously level. “You ask me that? You ask how I dare? Did you force this miserable wretch to tell you of what occurred at Gwynllyw’s? Or did she blurt it out without realising how your warped, twisted little mind would use the information? It is unfortunate for you, wife, I recall where I have seen this slut before. I do not often remember the base-born whores I take, but her flame-coloured hair reminded me. That and tattle of a river and a lady swimming there.”

  Arthur dragged the snivelling girl to her feet. “I barely noticed you serving the other night. I suppose you were both counting on that, hoping I was too drunk to remember where and when I had you.”

  He thrust the girl at Winifred, causing her to fall against her mistress. Told in graphic detail of how he had coupled with the slave, leaving out no detail and enjoying every word of the telling.

  “I have recounted things aright, have I not, Tangwen?” Arthur lunged forward, seized her by the shoulders and shook her until she cried agreement. “I would hazard a guess she left that particular part out of the telling though, eh, Winifred?”

  He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Fool! Have I not also left a vital part out, Tangwen? What of the reason for you being at the river? What of you seeing me lying with the Lady Gwladys?” He spun her round to face him, shaking her again. “What of it, girl? What of how I lay with the lady? A pretty tale. All of it lies!”

  “It were not!” she screamed. “It were not all lies! I saw you kiss her.”

  Winifred pressed her lips tighter together. Stupid girl.

  Arthur spat, “You saw me kiss her. A parting kiss from one friend to another. One chaste kiss was all you saw, was it not? Was it not!”

  She had not seen more, for if she knew Arthur had stood watching Gwladys bathing, had touched her, then for certain she would have told.

  He slapped her again. “Answer me!”

  Tears springing, she nodded.

  “Speak up. You saw nothing save a parting kiss of friendship.”

  “Aye.”

  “Louder!”

  “Aye!”

  Arthur hurled the girl towards the door. She stumbled and he followed after her, hauled her up by the hair, opened the door and kicked her outside. “You will wait there.” He pointed to the opposite wall. “Your mistress has no further use of you, but I do. May your god help you if you dare move so much as an inch!” He slammed the door, turned back to Winifred.

  “Well,” she said, applauding mockingly, “what an excellent performance. You burst in here, order my women out, beat one of them then dismiss her from my service. You must visit me more often, husband, you are quite entertaining.”

  Arthur remained silent, watching her through slit eyes, head slightly lowered. “It was a plausible tale, my dear,” he said; “how unfortunate it failed. I grant you it almost succeeded, but if you wish to hurt me I suggest you do it direct not by sinking your poisoned fangs into my comrades – or their pregnant wives.”

  Winifred laughed, retrieved some of her ladies’ sewing that had fallen to the floor. “Is this also part of the entertainment – riddles?”

  Arthur lunged, caught her to him. She gasped as his hand gripped her wrist. “You push your luck, woman! Luck has a nasty habit of running out when you need it most.”

  “I have no idea what you
mean. If you are referring to those rumours concerning Gwladys’s child, then I would suggest it is I who need the explanation.”

  “Who told Vortigern? You? Tangwen would never have had the intelligence or courage to whisper such lies to the King.”

  Winifred plucked at his fingers. “You are hurting me,” she said, pouting. “It is nothing to do with me – save for the insult of your bedding another woman.” She struggled, kicked once at his shins, then kicked again, her anger overcoming her. She bit his arm, began to fight him with feet, teeth and free hand.

  For a while he bore the blows, holding her away from him to stop her causing over-much damage, but soon tired of the senseless game. He smacked his fist into her face.

  She staggered, head reeling, the flesh of her cheekbone already swollen and bruised.

  “You dare lay hands on me, Arthur Pendragon. You bastard!”

  “I will do more than lay hands on you.” He felt no pity or guilt as he beat his wife with his belt across her arms and face. She screamed, huddled down on the floor, trying to protect herself from the flaying leather.

  Breathing hard, disgusted with her and himself, Arthur flung the belt aside, turned his back on the sobbing woman.

  Humiliated, hurting, Winifred clasped her arms around herself. Her hand touched something cold at her waist. Her fingers curled round the small jewel-studded hilt of a dagger. She drew it cautiously, then, with anger searing as sure as the pain she sprang at Arthur’s retreating back, the dagger scything down.

  He recognised the death hiss of a blade through air and whirled, grasping her wrist with one hand, prising the light weapon from her clenched fingers with the other.