Ectha laughed uncertainly, unsure whether Arthur jested or not. He felt uncomfortable in the young man’s presence. By Roman law Arthur was the head of the family, not Ectha. Uthr had been husband to the eldest daughter, heiress to all her father owned; Uthr had taken the legal responsibility, had passed it to the son at his death. All the same, Uthr had taken little interest in the estate; Arthur even less so – was not even resident. The daily running of the place fell to Ectha.
Wounded? Gwenhwyfar had flicked an anxious glance at Arthur as Bedwyr had told the reason for his being here. Arthur had winced as he had risen to greet her, had put little weight on his leg when standing.
Bedwyr, not at all put out by his cousin’s denial, went on to tell Gwenhwyfar the grim details, rather embellished. She listened, thankful she could be occupied with Bedwyr and not seem impolite to others in the room.
Arthur was talking to his mother. She had asked, “For how long, Arthur, do you intend to stay? You were somewhat vague upon your arrival.”
“A while, Mother, that is all I can say, a while. I expect until the sea lanes reopen in the spring.”
Ygrainne suppressed a groan. That long?
He noted his mother’s lack of enthusiasm. “You wish me gone from here before spring?” His voice was dry as he added sarcastically, “And I assumed you would be so pleased to see me.”
Irritated, she answered churlishly, “Of course I am. Your visits are rare. I wondered, merely, how long we could enjoy your company.”
Under his breath, “Liar.”
The room fell silent. Arthur beckoned a servant forward to refill his goblet with wine. He said after a moment, “I had a desire for my son to be born on my own, unquestionable territory. Pendragon land, not Saex.”
Winifred smiled across at her husband, not missing his sarcasm. Outwardly her look was one of love and respect. “My husband is most thoughtful in these matters, Lady Ygrainne. We both desire the next Pendragon to be as great as his father and grandsire.”
She accepted honey-sweetened fruit from a slave, said, her voice as sweet as the dish before her, “My Lord husband was most upset his family were not with us to celebrate our wedding feast.” She gazed fondly at Arthur. “Were you not, my dearest?” She lowered her voice slightly and said to Ygrainne, “Men can be such boys at times. He will never admit his true reason for bringing me here. Naturally he wishes to show the fruit of our happy union to his own people.” She patted her swollen belly to emphasise her point, smiling all the while at Arthur, daring him to contradict her. “In Britain,” she added, “the Pendragon’s banner is so eclipsed by that of my father.”
She turned her sickly-sweet smile on Gwenhwyfar. “It is a pity you left Britain so hurriedly, my dear, for you too missed our wedding feast. It was a grand occasion. My husband was quite overcome with emotion, were you not, love?” She did not miss the flicker of anger in Arthur’s eyes, nor the dullness in Gwenhwyfar’s. “Our wedding night was, how shall I say, a fulfilment of joy for both of us. We are blissfully happy together.”
Gwenhwyfar thought, If she does not stop soon I will slap her. Said, “I am pleased you are both content. The child will bring you future joy.”
Winifred had been as startled as Arthur to discover Cunedda’s daughter here at Ygrainne’s villa. So this was where she had been hiding all these months. If her mother or father knew, they had never said. And Melwas? Vortigern had dismissed Gwenhwyfar’s disappearance almost immediately, had more important problems to worry on. The fighting around the Angli settlements had flared again and there were reports of dissent in the north. Sulking, Melwas had taken himself off to his own Summer Land, had not been at court this past year. Did he know Gwenhwyfar was here? She must make sure he did.
More interesting had been Arthur’s unguarded reaction as Gwenhwyfar had entered the room. His wife had caught the flicker of alarm and discomposure. That was not like Arthur; he was always in control, always mastered his expression. None could read his veiled thoughts, not through that lazy grin and those impenetrable eyes. But he had let the mask slip for a fleeting second. So, he still wanted Gwenhwyfar then?
Winifred had enticed Arthur, bedded with him; had begged her mother to find a way of securing this marriage – and she had, by some devious method. All that, because she had determined no one else would have Arthur, the best catch in the river. She had thought the past was dead. Gwenhwyfar should have been betrothed to Melwas and then disappeared who knew or cared where. The past should have faded like the memory of yesterday’s sunset.
The spark of jealousy, that had kindled when she had first realised Arthur wanted Gwenhwyfar, flared again into life. There was one satisfaction. It had shaken him, finding her here. And Arthur shaken, was a rare sight worth the seeing. For the first time since she had found herself tricked on to his ship, Winifred felt a hint of pleasure. He, her arrogantly perfect husband, had made a mistake!
XII
The night was cold. Gwenhwyfar lay curled beneath her sleeping fur listening to the sounds of darkness: an owl hunting; mice rustling; the wind from the distant sea tugging at autumn leaves. She glanced at the empty bed on the other side of the room, wished she still had Ceridwen’s bright company during these long nights of loneliness.
Her cousin was happy in her marriage to Iawn, Gwenhwyfar did not begrudge her the contentment – how could she? Ceridwen was a sweet girl though a little too fanciful, oblivious to problems, seeing a good side to everything others thought bad.
Gwenhwyfar’s hand touched a wrapped bundle beneath her pillow. The few letters that had come from Gwynedd, from her brothers Enniaun and Ceredig; one from her father. She lay with her fingers touching the ribbon binding them, willed sleep to come.
Giving in, she pulled the bundle from its place of safety and padded across the floor to sit before the night lamp burning in the corner. She selected one letter at random, began to read. The words were faint in this dim light but she had read them often enough to need little illumination, knew every scrawled word by heart. It was one of Enniaun’s. He wrote of a skirmish across the straits from Caer Arfon on the Isle of Môn, said the sea-wolves were having the worst of it. She selected another, this from Ceredig. He told of his first-born son, of his new own-held territory down the coast to the south of Gwynedd’s borders. A third, received two weeks since containing word of her own mare’s foaling.
She dropped the letters in her lap wishing Etern were alive. He would have written of the mountains, the colours of the trees and the beauty of the horse herds being brought down from summer pasture.
Sitting in the silence of her room, Gwenhwyfar remembered past autumns. The early snows mantling Yr Wyddfa like an old woman’s veil. The golds and browns and reds of the trees, leaves clinging like suckling babes to their mothers’ breasts. The scent of wood-smoke and damp mountain earth. The kitchens at Caer Arfon alive with the bustle of preserving fruit and salting meat, the making of beer and wine. The cattle, those not to be slaughtered, gathered and, with the warhorses, divided among the outlying steadings for winter quartering. Each head of livestock carried a payment of corn, skins and spun wool for its good care. In this way the Lord of Gwynedd saw to it that his people were fed and adequately clothed throughout the winter months. For each animal returned fit and healthy, come spring, an extra payment was made. Cunedda’s livestock were well tended and his people content.
The seasonal stocking of the storerooms was almost completed in Ygrainne’s household also, of course, but the excitement was lost here. No sharing of laughter as soft and hard fruits were picked; no giggling of servants and children as the huge vats of bubbling fruits were cooked and poured into storage jars. Here, the slaves and servants carried out their duties efficiently but with a dullness that would erase the brilliance of the sun.
Gwenhwyfar sighed, folded her letters. Samhain was approaching, the night when the dead returned. Despite Christianity, the festival survived. The religious ceremony had faded once there were no more Druid pr
iests to officiate, but traditions were hard to break, particularly those linked with joyful festivity – or, as at Samhain, superstitious fear.
Ygrainne had scolded Gwenhwyfar when she mentioned the rite last autumn, impressing upon her that Christians followed Jesu and did not bow to the nonsense of pagan ceremony. Still, Gwenhwyfar had noted with a smile, Ygrainne devoted herself to deeper prayer on Samhain eve, and Gwenhwyfar’s was not the only bowl of milk placed before the threshold as a gift to any wandering spirits.
Bedwyr, with the children of neighbours and freeborn servants, had enjoyed playing the traditional games, although Ygrainne had frowned on those too. This year, remembering the fun, he was eagerly awaiting the close of the month, three weeks away. As a child at Caer Arfon, Gwenhwyfar had looked forward with excitement to the festival, when they played and drank and feasted; when tales were told around the Hall fires of people from the past who might, even as the tales were being told, be creeping around the outer walls.
An owl hooted, long and low, an eerie, ghostly sound. Gwenhwyfar shivered, recalling the childhood thrill of being enjoyably terrified by the darkness of Samhain night. No doubt this year, as last, she would be expected to kneel in Ygrainne’s cold stone chapel. Oh aye, Ygrainne said she did not believe in the nonsense of Samhain, but she did not rest easy on the night when the dead walked.
Gwenhwyfar caught her breath. Something moved by the shrubs bordering the ornamental garden beyond the window. For a heart-thudding moment she wondered if her thoughts had conjured up a spirit. She fought the panic down. Whatever it was, it had gone.
She relaxed, surprised to feel sweat trickling down her back and laughed at herself. Foolish to let her imagination run away with her. She reached for the small flagon of watered wine standing ready for night use. Half glancing at the gardens, not watching what she was doing, she tipped it over. By chance, Gwenhwyfar caught it before it crashed to the floor but wine gushed in a splashing fountain. She cursed.
Reaching for a shawl Gwenhwyfar covered her shoulders and slid her feet into soft house shoes. Ygrainne would have insisted a house slave be wakened to clear up the mess, but Gwenhwyfar reckoned it quicker to fetch a cloth and do it herself. Why disturb those who slept for such a trivial task?
The kitchens were deserted and silent, a single night lamp casting a dim but adequate light. A lingering smell of the evening’s meal pervaded.
Reaching for a beaker Gwenhwyfar poured water for herself, drank thirstily then searched for a cloth to wipe up the spillage in her room. She found something suitable, made her way back along the open colonnaded corridor running the entire length of the villa. Storerooms, kitchens and dining room took up one wing, with servants’ sleeping quarters above. The main living quarters formed the central block with the bathhouse, Arthur’s rooms and extra guest rooms on the third.
Something made her pause before turning to climb the narrow servants’ stairs leading to the upper floor. She glanced at the two parallel rows of conifers forming a central aisle through the gravelled courtyard – and gasped. Someone, something, stood there with its back to her, gazing up at the cloud-veiled half-moon.
She must have made an audible noise for the shape turned.
“Who is there?” a voice called, low and wary.
“I could ask the same,” Gwenhwyfar countered, an edge of fear to her words. She stood motionless as a vague shadow walked forward, feet scrunching, oddly unbalanced on the gravel, a third noise clicking with the awkward pace.
The clouds parted and a thin radiance lit up the open space. Gwenhwyfar caught a brief glimpse of unmistakable features before the moon sailed again behind her shielding cover.
“What are you doing out here, Arthur?” she asked lightly, unsuccessfully masking a tremor.
“I could ask the same,” he echoed.
Gwenhwyfar saw the reason for the third sound: he was leaning heavily on a crutch.
Climbing the five steps leading to the raised corridor, Arthur seated himself on the top one, stretching the injured limb before him. He sat quiet for a while, toying with the wooden crutch.
Gwenhwyfar hesitated, undecided between staying or going. She had made up her mind to leave when he said, “I truly did not expect you to be here, Gwen.”
“As you can see, you expected wrong.” The reply was curt.
He half looked round at her, standing there in her night shift with only a shawl around her shoulders. Her lovely hair tumbled as wild as he remembered; suited her better than that artificial, restricting style she had worn earlier. His initial shock at first sight of her had numbed him; it had taken all his wits and experience to master that sudden leap of panic.
He had known Cunedda had sent her here – it had been his own suggestion, for he knew the people of the town would not gossip and Gwenhwyfar would be safe with his mother. But Mithras, he had not expected her to have remained all this while!
He told himself again she was beyond his reach; he had tried to put her memory from him. Had succeeded, he thought, until she stood there before him, silent and thin and pale – more beautiful than ever he remembered. He had felt his whole being shake as he acknowledged her formal, distant, greeting, stifled the longing to fold her in his arms, kiss her hair and eyes and lips – hold her close and safe.
Then he had glimpsed Winifred, his wife. Saw her hastily veiled gleam of triumph; realised he must never, ever, give way to his feelings before her, because, bitch that she was, she would destroy Gwenhwyfar as easily as crushing a butterfly.
Winifred was only too ready to sharpen her claws at his expense.
His voice cold, Arthur said, “I am eager to see my son come into the world. A grandchild may bridge the gap between myself and my mother.”
Gwenhwyfar said nothing, looked beyond him to the scudding moon shadows. She had to ask. Had to know. “Do you love her?”
He groaned, masked the sound by rubbing the persistent ache in his leg. “My wound is healing all too slowly. Often of a night it pains me. I find walking eases it.” Then, “She is my wife, Gwenhwyfar.”
“She is your wife, aye. Do you love her?” Gwenhwyfar stared at him, her hand clasped at her throat holding her shawl around her, a small protective barricade.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, the pain in his thigh and the grimace on his strained face genuine enough. He said again, “She is my wife, and Vortigern’s daughter.”
“She is the by-blow of a Saex bitch!”
“I repeat,” low, a tinge of menace, “she is my wife. She carries my son.”
Unable to help herself Gwenhwyfar flung a taunt at him. “The daughter takes after the mother. All Saex women are scheming whores – are you so sure it is yours?”
Despite his wound, Arthur moved quickly, grabbed her arm in a grasp so tight it hurt. In the morning, Gwenhwyfar would find an ugly bruise where his fingers had gripped.
The anger was genuine, but the direction of it false. He desperately wanted to see the end of the mare he was saddled with, but had no way of doing so save for her death. His pride would not let him show the chains which shackled him to her, so he lashed out in anger at the one he loved.
“I say for the final time, Winifred is my wife. I pleaded her hand,” he snorted in self-disgust, “took her virginity in my bed. Through her may come an easy way of claiming the kingship. I have added benefits to my ambition – a wealthy woman for my bed to pleasure me, and a son soon to be born.”
Gwenhwyfar laughed scornfully. “You sound so sincere I almost believe you.”
“I have told no lie.”
“Have you not?” she retorted. “Have you then forgotten our pledge the day your men cheered you as their lord?” Her eyes flashed in the dim light. “Have you so easily forgotten you asked me to be your queen, Arthur Pendragon?”
He turned away, limped a few paces, rested his hands on the waist-high railing. His stomach churned, he felt sick. His thigh throbbed abominably, his head also. Aye, he remembered. Remembered all too clearly.
She answered, “You asked my father for my hand. You change allegiance as the tide turns.”
He sucked in his breath and gritting his teeth, cursed silently. She knew then. He almost decided to drop this pretence, almost turned to her to admit all he truly felt, but na, how could he endanger her? He loved her too dearly to bring Winifred’s spite down on her. Why in the name of Mithras had he come here?
He gripped the railing with his hands. “I asked for you because our marriage would have brought an unequivocal alliance with Gwynedd and easy access to your father’s horses. Cunedda refused me, so I looked elsewhere for my wealth.”
Gwenhwyfar stared at him, stunned. Was this the truth? Could she have been so blindly stupid? Had it all been lies, one long lie after another? She said simply, “I thought you loved me.”
Arthur shut his eyes, tight, dug his nails into the wood of the railing. “Then you thought wrong.” He did not want to hurt her; had to hurt her. “I tell all my women I love them. I suppose for the one night I am with them, I do give love. Come morning, I forget them.”
Once, Gwenhwyfar had been kicked by her father’s stallion. She had been eight years old, had foolishly walked behind the animal and paid the price. The blow had sent her spinning across the stable yard to crash into the opposite wall and lie screaming and crying as the pain shot up her leg. There were no bones broken, but she had nursed the bruising for weeks after. Strange, she had completely forgotten the incident until now. It was almost as if, again, she had walked where she ought not and been kicked for her stupidity.
Suddenly, she hated Arthur, hated him more than she would have thought possible. Without further word she turned her back on him and returned to her room. Dropping the cloth she had absently clutched in her hand she crumpled to the floor. Sobs racked her body; great, bitter tears. Her heart, already these past months dangerously cracked, was shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
The Kingmaking Page 32