The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Hardness, a feint to hide behind. “Men and women snigger behind my back that my husband knows the tavern sluts better than his wife. Or that I can only please my husband when he is wine-soaked.” Winifred pleaded again. “I do not understand. When you bed with me, we are so good together; we make love with an ecstasy that surely even the gods and goddesses of old would not have known. Is it so wrong for me to love you?” Change to defiance, “I intended to bargain with you, Arthur. Me for our son. For his return, you were to take the both of us. Both or neither.” Challenging. “Put me where I belong as your respected wife and future queen, or have my son one day take your place.”

  He snorted with amusement. “You do not frighten me. Your father never has and you certainly never will.”

  “I will no longer be treated like some common piece of gutter muck! I am your wife; you will treat me with honour or forgo the knowing of your son.”

  “I can get other sons. When I overthrow your father I will get other sons.” His narrowed eyes bored into hers, malicious, determined. “By another wife.” He knew it would hurt, and he saw the involuntary flinch as his barb entered.

  She flung a retort. “My father is old, has nothing left to face but the coming of death, but my grandsire shall never bow his head to you. He shall be king next, then we shall see who is the mightier.”

  Arthur laughed. “Hengest? He could no more beat me in battle than he could piss on a forest fire to put out the flames. He is of small consequence.” He clicked his fingers. “Escort the lady below. See she remains there.”

  “I need no escort.” Winifred turned to make her own way, the bumping in her chest easing. He did not seem to know much beyond the outer fringes: that she was to have gone to Hengest for her well-being, not because of what was soon to come. Of that, relieved, she was certain. Certain enough to threaten, “You may have other sons, Pendragon, but remember this. Mine shall always be the first-born.”

  Arthur pulled a fur tighter about him. The evening chill on the river was becoming more penetrating. “How disappointed you will be should it be a girl.”

  Winifred ducked below, heard him add, “Or you may prove to be as worthless as your mother, breeding only the dead-born.”

  His love? Did she truly believe she wanted that? As of this moment, all she wanted was his death.

  October 454

  X

  Gwenhwyfar reined in her mare, calling to the boy cantering ahead and pointed with exaggerated movement to the ship making her way upriver. Bedwyr tugged his pony around, studying the vessel with his eyes narrowed against the bright sun.

  He was much like his elder brother, Cei: brown-haired, brown-eyed, with the same jutting jawline. Gwenhwyfar assumed the sons favoured their dead mother, for they were nothing like their square-jowled father, Ectha.

  “She’s no ordinary trading ship,” he observed. “Where is she from, Gwen?” The glow of childhood shone in his face. Eleven, and all the confidence and enthusiasm of the Empire within him. He allowed Gwenhwyfar no time to answer, plunged on with, “From Britain, do you think? No Saex ship would dare flaunt such a bold red sail.” He screwed up his eyes, shielding them from the glare with his hand, trying to make out the pennant drooping at the masthead.

  The ship was under oar now, coming slow around, but Bedwyr was losing interest. The waterway was always busy with traders and the like. He swung his pony inland, kicked him to a trot and shouted a challenge at Gwenhwyfar to race.

  Squeezing Seren forward, Gwenhwyfar trotted a few paces after him, her head swivelling to keep the ship in view. She hauled her mare to an abrupt halt, swung her to face the river, gaze intent. There was something about it that tugged at her memory – that red sail, or the carriage of her prow as she glided with the incoming tide?

  A flurry of wind gathered in mid-channel, catching the lifeless pennant as the craft swung landward. Gwenhwyfar caught her breath. For a heartbeat she forgot the present; glimpsed, like a half-seen shadow, herself as a young girl. She had been riding then too, with a boy up on the hills. How long had it been now? And how long since her flight into exile and, following her heels like death’s shadow, news of Arthur’s marriage? A lifetime, it seemed. Was it truly only a little more than a year? One long, lonely year?

  Bedwyr was shouting for her to start the race. She waved acknowledgement and pushed her mare into a canter, looking back over her shoulder just the once, for a final glance at the ship. Tear-blurred vision and the gentle sloping heath had hidden the span of river from view. She forced a brave smile for Bedwyr’s benefit. “We had best get to old Gaius’s,” she said, “before his Juliana finishes her baking.”

  Bedwyr whooped and thudded his heels into the pony’s ribs, startling it forward into a plunging gallop. Gwenhwyfar let him win.

  Gaius’s farm was a favourite place to visit. A one-time cavalry officer of Rome settled now on his own few acres, he enjoyed the civilian life with his wife – who baked particularly wholesome barley-cakes. The elderly man greeted them with a friendly wave as they turned into the courtyard. Flinging himself from the pony, Bedwyr darted forward to give his friend a hug of greeting, the man embracing the lad in return. Juliana appeared, dusting flour from her hands. She swept Bedwyr to her, pleased to see him. His eagerness and high spirits eased the ache for her own two sons, killed long ago serving Rome.

  She smiled an equally warm greeting at Gwenhwyfar. “You time your visit well, my dears – I have cakes ready to come from the oven. And a pot of sweet honey to spread on new-baked bread.”

  Bedwyr yelped with delight and sped off for the kitchen, his feet kicking up puffs of dust, Juliana plump and matronly in his wake.

  “Do not get under foot!” Gwenhwyfar called.

  Handing the horses to a slave, Gaius ushered Gwenhwyfar to the porch and calling for refreshment, seated himself on a couch opposite his guest. He enjoyed a chance to talk and laugh – what better than to spend an afternoon with a pretty young woman who delighted in hearing the prattling of an old fool? Ah, if he were only many years younger, happen he could bring the smile back to her pale cheeks.

  Gaius sipped his wine, nibbled his cheese, observing Gwenhwyfar with an indulgent smile. She had first come just over a year ago; walking quiet and ashen-faced beside young Bedwyr, a lad bursting with life and energy. Gaius had been instantly reminded of another such boy – young Arthur – who had helped to while away many an afternoon with talk of horses and soldiering. On that day, Gwenhwyfar had led her lame mare, seeking help. Gaius had welcomed her, tended the horse and offered to loan a remount.

  They had come often after that, at first to inspect the mare’s fetlock, later to enjoy the company of two elderly people. Juliana cooed and fussed over her visitors; Gaius, in his calm way, instilled much learning into the energetic young lad; together they brought a small flicker of happiness back to Gwenhwyfar. To Juliana, Gwenhwyfar was the daughter she had never birthed, a girl in need of a mother’s guiding hand and unquestioning love. To Gaius she was a puzzle. Always quiet and soft-spoken, she would sit with Bedwyr listening to the tales Gaius told of his days with the Roman Cavalry, or help eagerly with the chores, never minding hard work. She could chop wood or reap corn as well as any man, was calm and gentle with an injured or frightened horse and had a knack of soothing an irritable nanny goat or petulant ewe to stand a while for milking. She rarely spoke of her home. With the passing of time the old couple came to understand why. The speaking was too painful.

  “Riding here,” Gwenhwyfar said, “I remembered a particular day, years past. I was with my brother on the hills of Gwynedd.” She stopped, remembering so clearly. Etern’s grumpiness over her fat old pony, his joy on recognising that pennant. Etern. She would never see Etern again in this life.

  Gwenhwyfar was like a tree, Gaius thought, a tree in winter. You knew it was a tree because there was a trunk and spreading branches; but it was not a tree, not until the spring, when leaves burst forth, shining green. Not until then did the thing of beauty c
ome alive.

  She looked at him shyly. “I so miss Gwynedd.”

  The man reached out, touched her hand. Her skin was cold.

  She continued talking, to ease the choking pressure building in her throat. How to explain the longing for a place? Mountains and streams. Restless sea. Mist, rain; sudden, dazzling sun. “Being away from Gwynedd is like parting from a lover gone to war. I remember the happy days when we walked and rode together, and hear the whisper of that special voice. I lie at night longing to be close to the one I love. To feel and smell that comforting nearness, warmth and strength enfolding me. But I am alone and my heart knows not when, if ever, we shall meet again.”

  Gaius refilled her cup, poured for himself. “Is it a place or a person you talk of?”

  Gwenhwyfar started. “Oh, a place!” She busied herself with her wine, looked up with an apologetic smile. She could not lie to Gaius. “Both.” She sighed. “The one I cannot go to. The other I cannot have.”

  “That is indeed love! Love is a piteous condition for which there is no cure,” Gaius said with a laugh.

  She laughed with him, and Gaius noted, with the regrets of a man grown too old to do more than think and talk, how pretty she was when she laughed. Unexpectedly, as if it were of no matter, she said, “A ship has come from Britain.”

  “A special ship?” Gaius enquired, something in her offhand manner alerting him. This ship, then, was important.

  Gwenhwyfar studied the cup she held. “Aye.” It was good to talk to Gaius. His legs would no longer carry him far, his teeth were nearly all gone and his hearing not so sharp, but for all that he would listen without a disapproving intake of breath at some private confession, unlike Ygrainne would do. Juliana had too sharp a sense of down-to-earth practicality, and Ceridwen, dear as she was, over-much innocence for the sharing of despair. Besides, Ceridwen was caught in her own web of new-wedded bliss. She saw nought but sun and blue sky since the day Iawn took her as wife.

  Gaius’s sight may have faded, but then, Gaius did not see with his eyes alone. He was a man who saw hidden things with his heart, could see the shadowed movement beneath the surface of the pool, or the stars behind the clouds. A friend who cared enough to listen without the need to pass comment or judgement.

  Gwenhwyfar said, “I feel I am the last leaf hanging on a tree at the end of autumn. Dangling there, alive still, but becoming shrivelled and dry. I do not know whether to stay clinging here or let go and get the waiting for death over with.”

  Gaius thought how strange that he had compared her to a tree also.

  She looked at her hands clasping the pottery cup. Clean, manicured nails, smooth uncallused skin. In Gwynedd, her nails had always been jagged and short, her hands roughened from the continuous handling of horse and weapon. Here, she lived a life of Roman luxury. Pampered, tended like young spring vegetables, noblewomen of Rome did not groom their own mounts, or muck out stables or chop wood for the fire. Or fight. She put the cup slowly, carefully, on the table. “I can think only of dark times. The mother I never knew. Etern cruelly murdered. The reason why I am here, and the man I love, who is married to another.” Her eyes filled with tears. Memories. So many black and bitter memories.

  “Ygrainne talks constantly of God. Her righteous words follow me like a wolf in the night, stalking me, hunting me. I lie awake thinking, trying to sort my thoughts. She talks of the Hell we are condemned to in the next life unless we give our hearts to God in this. This place she talks of, I am already there!” She buried her face in her hands. “I am empty, I am nothing. I exist in a barren wasteland of endless days and longer nights. When I walk beside the river, I wonder if it would be better to drown quickly there, rather than slowly here.”

  Gaius wanted to speak, but held his tongue. To say something now might stop the girl from talking – and she needed to talk, needed someone to listen.

  Gwenhwyfar looked up, her face a mask of grief, her eyes shadow-bruised. “I am frightened,” she whispered. “Frightened of so many things.”

  “We all fear, child,” the old man said, taking her hand between his own and holding it there, unobtrusive but comforting.

  “I was managing,” she said, “living from day to day, never thinking beyond the morrow. I shut out the past. The future also.” She gave a shuddering breath. “Especially the future.” For a moment she faltered. “Seeing that ship has brought back all the memories. The longing. The faces. Voices. Much has happened since I was forced to flee from Londinium. My life, the life of… others. Now,” she looked again at her hands, “now I am frightened of facing what remains of today. Frightened of tomorrow and the day after. I knew this ship would come. Knew it would bring a day when I had to abandon pretence and face reality.” Her tears fell freely, running down her cheeks. “I am so alone in this darkness, Gaius. There are people around me, many people, but I am alone. I must face this fear alone, but I cannot! I cannot! I want someone to reach down a hand, and pull me from this depth of despair, from these choking weeds. Anyone! Anyone to say, I am here!”

  “Anyone?” Gaius waited.

  She said nothing. He had listened well, not only to the words she had spoken; had listened more to those unspoken.

  “Anyone, child?” he said again, his voice low and kind. “Or someone in particular? Someone aboard that ship?”

  Through the tears she looked up sharp, startled.

  Ah, thought Gaius, I am right. He reflected a while. He must say the correct thing here, wise words of comfort. “Memories are like battles, and battles can go one way or the other. You can stand and fight, no matter what pain runs from your wounds; or you can turn tail and run, knowing then the enemy will follow and without mercy hunt you down.”

  Gwenhwyfar sat silent. Her father’s voice came to her, so clear she almost thought that if she were to turn, she would find him standing there behind her. She smiled through her tears. “It is as you say. I fear this ship, because of who is aboard. But most of all I fear what may happen because of his coming. I am not sure I can fight the problems he will bring, yet I am tired of running. My Da” – she wiped away the tears with her fingers – “my Da always said, Fight fear, and fear will flee like mist before a rising wind. But how do you fight a dream that has turned sour?”

  “As you would any battle, with shield and sword raised, chin and heart high. You fight it, my dear, by looking it straight in the eye.”

  Impulsively, she leant forward and placed a quick, light kiss on the old man’s cheek. “Thank you, Gaius. You have given me a small measure of courage.”

  Gwenhwyfar stood, gathering her light riding cloak around her. She felt cold, despite the warmth of the day. If she were to ride to battle, she had best go now. She called for Bedwyr, who came reluctantly, cheeks sticky with golden honey. She dabbed at them with the hem of her cloak and smiled indulgently. “I see you have been enjoying yourself. It is time to return home. Arthur has come.”

  XI

  Before they had ridden more than ten minutes, Gwenhwyfar regretted telling the boy of the ship’s passenger. Bedwyr was in a flurry of excitement, all for racing home at a gallop. She could understand his pleasure but could not imitate it. The Pendragon was the boy’s hero, his god almost. Gwenhwyfar remembered the excitement she and Etern had felt as they had hurried back to Caer Arfon; the thrill of recognising the Dragon pennant, of realising it was Uthr himself who had come to Gwynedd. Again the stab of pain.

  She could not begrudge Bedwyr his pleasure as he rode, always a few paces ahead of her, his laughter echoing the joy remembered from her own childhood. She kept a tight rein on her own emotion, attempted to smile back at the boy as he chattered on.

  He repeated once more every detail of the Nativity festival two years past when Arthur and Cei had come home after their first season of service with Vortigern. They had left as boys, and returned for those few brief weeks with feet well set on the road to manhood. Cei had been home since, but not Arthur.

  Bedwyr relived those glorious we
eks, his child’s memory dwelling on the things that had been important to him personally. Presents, games, mock fights. Shared laughter and much happiness.

  Gwenhwyfar let him chatter, murmuring occasional agreement at significant points. She had heard the same account many times over – he told his tale of that festival to any who cared to listen. It had been hard for him to accept the going of Arthur and his brother when they had followed Cunedda’s advice. Harder still to part with them again after their visit. Bedwyr longed to become a man – would the years never pass? Arthur had promised he could take ship and enter his ala of cavalry when he was older; he would ride his own horse, have his own sword. Would become one of Arthur’s men.

  Until then, he was left behind in Less Britain: a child anxiously waiting, alone and miserable.

  Gwenhwyfar had brightened his dull life. Although quiet and subdued in the presence of his Aunt Ygrainne and his father, Gwenhwyfar had revealed a different side when they rode out alone. She was fun to be with, appreciated the ways of a child – a boy who nursed the wild ambitions of a young warrior. She could tell stories that made your heart soar as high as the clouds, tales of the old gods and brave battles. When he discovered she knew how to handle sword and shield, his worship of her became complete. If his cousin Arthur was his god, then Gwenhwyfar was surely his goddess.

  For Gwenhwyfar, Bedwyr provided a welcome release from the behaviour expected of a lady. In the company of adults she conformed, was every inch the young, educated gentlewoman of noble birth but when riding and fishing with Bedwyr, she relaxed and let her natural sparkle – though tarnished at the edges – shine through. And Bedwyr learnt from her. Learnt of Britain, of the Saex; the mountains of Gwynedd. The old ways and the past. He looked forward to his lessons with his fusty tutor after the coming of Gwenhwyfar, eager to surprise her with his own knowledge. They were good for each other, the lonely boy and the lost girl. Companions who supported each other.