“Who has done this?” he demanded of the old man. “Who dares attack and injure an elderly and respected man of Gwynedd?”
The wounded man grasped at Cunedda’s woollen cloak, his gnarled and bruised fingers clutching tight. “Sea-raiders,” he gasped, his breath coming in rasping pain from wheezing lungs. “They burnt our settlement, took the women and children, our cattle.” He coughed, blood frothing with the spittle. “They left me, a useless old man, for dead, but I came to you, came to get help.”
“When?” Meriaun asked. “When did they come?”
The old man looked at him, squatting next to his grandsire and offering a cloth to stem the blood. “Night afore last.” He took the cloth, put it to his bleeding scalp and cast his gaze over the surrounding ring of faces, said to the shaking heads and muttered curses, “I came as quick as I could.”
Sympathetically, Cunedda patted the man’s shoulder. Old age and aching bones slowed a man so; aye, and that without injuries such as these. “You did well in the circumstances.” He scanned the warriors gathered in his Hall, questioning with gruff expression their thoughts and reactions. Nodded satisfied. “Sa,” he said. “All we need do is find the nest-hole of their pitched camp and claim back what is ours.”
The old man tried to laugh, coughed again, his lungs fired from age and injury. “Na, I have the knowing of that!”
Men leant closer, intrigued, interested.
“I came across them, two, three miles further up the coast from my settlement.” He gathered breath, the sound rasping in his throat. “I had to circle half a mile to avoid their set watch.”
“Are you certain it was the same party?” Dunaut asked.
“Aye,” Rumaun added, “there is many a camp this winter. The raiders come and stay. We have a summer ahead of us of nest-clearing.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” the man wheezed. “I stayed close long enough to recognise the women, and a raider with a great thatch of black hair. It were he who knocked me to the ground, splitting open my skull.”
Meriaun, Dunaut, Rumaun and the other warriors looked at Cunedda. He only needed to say the word and they would be running for horse and spear. Cunedda watched the trail of leisurely blue smoke drifting up from the hearth fire, watched as it curled a while among the carved rafters before slipping away through the smoke hole into the darkness above. His knees pained him these cold winter days, his back ached and his eyes were not so sharp as they used to be. But for all that, the prospect of settling a score with these plagued sea-pirates was not unwelcome. He regarded the waiting men a moment, noted their eagerness, their edge of excitement. Winter was a dreary time, months of sitting around a fire telling tales, preparing for the new-coming season. Aye, it would be good to fetch up the horses. He grinned. “Let’s go!”
The black hour before the coming of dawn lay quiet and still. No moon, but the bright patterns of winter stars glittered against a cold frosted sky. The breath of the horses came in great clouds of steam, mingled with the heat of their sweating bodies. They were thick-coated this time of year, well protected against the bite of Eryri’s sharp frosts and deep snows.
The Hibernian men were sleeping, huddled within oar and sail tents or beneath upturned keels. Their fires had died long since, but a bellyful of roasted ox and stolen ale, coupled with a captured woman, kept the worst of the winter chill away. The first few did not know the death that hit them, muffled by sleep and blankets as they were. The swords of Cunedda and his warriors sliced life and rousing screams with well-placed blows. Others had time to leap awake, fumble for weapons, make some small attempt at defence. None had chance to live, for Cunedda’s fury was great and his revenge complete.
The killing was soon over and the several fires that burnt the sea-raiders’ ships along with their mangled bodies and bloodied blankets rose thick and black to greet the lightening dawn sky.
Only there came no rejoicing from the sons of Cunedda. No cheering derision as Meriaun had set torch to the first pile of brushwood, flesh and bone. No happiness or carousel at victory. What joy was there in death? What pleasure came in the killing when their beloved Lion Lord, Cunedda, lay slain and growing cold beside the spilt blood of their enemies?
March 455
XIX
Winifred watched Arthur and Gwenhwyfar ride out, trotting beneath the arched gateway and kicking their horses into a steady canter beyond. The two sets of hooves left marked tracks through the dew-soaked grass, already tinted a lush green with spring growth. She glowered, knuckles gripping white against the wooden sill.
“To where do they ride?” She spoke aloud, turned startled as a servant answered.
“Most times, to the farmstead of Gaius Justinian Maximus, Lady.”
Winifred’s eyebrow rose. Gaius? She had heard Arthur talk of him. An old man who farmed his own land beyond the estate’s boundary. She turned from the window, casually, as if only half interested. “How know you this?”
Fidelia blushed crimson, realising her impertinence at speaking out. She busied herself bundling up soiled bedlinen.
“Well?” Leaning against the wall, Winifred tapped her foot, expecting an answer. This girl knew something, and Winifred did not like others knowing things she did not.
If they had not been alone Fidelia would never have spoken, but Winifred’s personal maid was elsewhere and the girl had long since discovered that you must seize an opportunity when the gods gave it.
She held the bundle of linen to her, hiding behind it as if it would give her protection. “I am friendly with a young man.” She lifted her chin. She was no slave but a free woman, and entitled to make the acquaintance of a man of her choosing.
Irritably, Winifred fluttered her hand at her. What cared she for a servant’s peasant life? “Your life is of no interest to me, girl.”
Fidelia lowered her defence, put the bundle down on the bed and walked the few bold steps to stand beside Winifred, eager to exchange gossip. “My man is a shepherd. He cares for the estate’s flock up on the heath. He is often on our high ground, above Gaius’s farm.”
“Is he now?” Winifred smiled encouraging. “And he mentioned your master’s presence at this farm of – Gaius, did you say?”
“Aye, my Lady. He said he sees him there often, always with Lady Gwenhwyfar, sometimes with young Master Bedwyr also.”
Winifred maintained her friendly smile while digesting the information with cold malice. “And what, child, do you suppose they do at this farmstead of Gaius Justinian Maximus?”
Fidelia chewed her lip, unsure what else to say, aware too late, she had already tattled over-much. She lifted her shoulders and hands. “They talk, Lady, with the old man and his wife.”
“Talk!” Winifred threw up her hands. “La, la, la! They ride that distance nigh on every day, to talk?”
The girl stepped back, alarmed at the burst of cynical laughter.
Winifred turned again to stare out the window, her arms folded tight. The two riders had gone. Thoughtfully she fiddled with a ring on her little finger. She turned back to smile at the girl.
“I assume you cannot yet marry with this sheep-herd of yours for lack of money?”
Fidelia inclined her head. He was a good man, kind and thoughtful, with passable features. A moderate lover, though she had been with better. She had lain with Arthur once, her first time that had been, several years past. For all it was before he had left to serve with Vortigern and before he had married Winifred, best not mention it!
Herding sheep was a fair living if you did not mind being poor. Were he to marry, her man would be given permission to build his own dwelling place where he could take his wife and raise his children. But sheep were demanding, silly, smelly creatures. Fidelia had no liking for them. Her man often spent days away with them, especially at lambing. Come spring, she barely saw him unless she cared to make the long walk up to the lambing pens. Once there, he had no time for her beyond a few exchanged words and a quick cuddle. Certainly no time for lovemaking.
He had to keep a close eye on those stupid sheep. He would be gone soon now the ewes were heavy with lamb. One week more then he would be off, up to the pens with his lantern, his wolfskin cloak and his torn-eared dog.
Something worried Fidelia about their relationship. Though a good man, he would always be poor, his life always dreary. She did not relish either prospect.
Winifred held out the ring to her. “Take this as a token for your service, my faithful woman.” She laughed at her play on the girl’s given name, added, “I reward well those who serve me.” She stared meaningfully at the girl who, understanding, took the ring.
Winifred dismissed her and went to her writing table. She must get a third letter to her mother. Her one anxiety now was if Hengest were to move before the coming of summer she would be trapped here with Arthur -and then she would not reckon much to her chances of remaining long on this earth! If only she had borne a living son – or carried another. Hah! What chance of that with the Gwynedd slut taking Arthur’s attention?
“Talk!” she snorted, a stylus snapping between her fingers from over-hard pressure. “Is that the name they give for whoring in this God-cursed place?”
It took five days for Fidelia to discover more. Five days of walking with her man on the hills, of pretending to enjoy helping with those stinking sheep. Steering the conversation, probing and questioning, she found answers as hard to come by as wild strawberries in midwinter.
It was a dreary day. Low grey cloud drizzled rain, accompanied by gusting wind that rattled at the windows and crept through cracks under the doors.
Fidelia was combing Winifred’s hair. There had been others around all morning, but at the first opportunity of privacy the girl said in a low voice, “I met with my man last evening, Lady.”
“What is that to me?” Winifred kept her tone indifferent, anxious not to push lest she push too far too soon. She had no intention of spoiling all this delicate work by rushing.
“He told me something of interest.” Fidelia paused, the comb in her hand, eyeing the jewel casket standing on Winifred’s table. That small ring the other day had fetched four gold pieces at market.
She had decided not to mention her little gain to her shepherd. Instead, had hidden the coins in a secret hole behind a half-rotten timber in one corner of her bedroom in the servants’ quarters.
Casually Winifred pointed to her casket, ordered Fidelia to fetch it and made a pretence of selecting jewellery to wear for the day. “I swear I do not need all this.” She held a brooch to her shoulder. “Look at this, I never wear the thing.” She tossed it to the girl. “You have it.”
Fidelia snatched the brooch up, put it deftly into the pouch at her waist, continued combing Winifred’s hair. “My man said it was a curious thing how, when Lord Arthur and Lady Gwenhwyfar visit Gaius, the old man and his wife do not seem to entertain their company but go about the day as if no one were there.” Her mistress seemed pleased with the information; now she was started on this course she cared little that she was betraying the Pendragon. What had he given her? A quick tumble in the hay, a tossed bronze coin and the need to seek old Livila to have the gotten babe removed. He had not laid eyes on her a second time, though she made it clear she was available. Fidelia would have liked to be mistress to Arthur, as Morgause had been to Uthr. The prospect would have offered a better life than that of a shepherd’s wife.
For Gwenhwyfar, she felt a twinge of conscience. Gwenhwyfar had shown kindness, had given her a discarded tunic last summer. But the weight of gold eased the doubt considerably.
“When young Master Bedwyr accompanies them, my man says Gaius takes the boy with him to the fields or to tend the stock.” Fidelia peeped through slant eyes, saving the best until last. “My Lord and Lady remain within the house, alone.”
“I see.” Winifred affected a puzzled, innocent face. “Why do you suppose that might be?”
With deft fingers, Fidelia began braiding Winifred’s hair. “It is not my place to say, except… “
“Except what?”
The girl hesitated. If she said this next thing, she could be opening a box of trouble.
“Speak out, girl!”
The lid was lifted, she might as well open it wide. “I was about to say, why does any woman in love spend time alone with a man?”
“And you believe Lady Gwenhwyfar to be in love!” Winifred laughed, inwardly seething. How dare that Gwynedd bitch be so blatant! How dare she give the servants cause to gossip and twitter. Arthur was her man. She had made that quite plain to the both of them. She said, incredulous, “Surely not?”
Fidelia finished the braid, twisted it neatly around Winifred’s head, securing it with pins. “It is obvious, Lady. From soon after the celebrations of the Nativity she has been a changed person. Gay and light-hearted, with a look of happiness about her. Why, I have never heard her sing so much. She used to mope about like a laundry day turned wet with sudden rain.”
Winifred sat stone-faced, her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. Anger threatened to burst from her tight throat. Bitch! This had been going on for some time – she ought to have suspected earlier. Winifred cursed herself; she had suspected, but thought they would not dare become lovers, not while she was in the same building. How could she have been so stupid and blind?
Arthur had come to her two or three times since he had been up and about on that lame leg of his. Said it was paining him still, gave that as the reason for not coming to her more often. She cursed herself inwardly again. Fool! She had mutely accepted his excuse for his apparent lack of appetite, welcomed it even, in view of her preoccupation with her own business. She had taken his word for truth. God’s curse, when did Arthur ever speak truth?
So he was tumbling Gwenhwyfar? He would pay for making a fool of his wife; by God’s grace, he would pay dearly!
But first she must play this thing through. No use to rave before this servant girl. She must seek to gain support and sympathy.
Winifred slumped forward, slithering off her stool to the floor with a little groan, her face crumpling in anguished disbelief. The effect was very good. Fidelia, with a squeak of alarm, dropped the hairpins and rushed to Winifred’s side, placing a comforting arm around her heaving shoulders.
“Oh, my Lady! Do not weep, I beg you. We all know our men are deceitful. The Pendragon is so like his father in that way.”
Winifred clung to the girl, sobbing. Stammered, “My dear, sweet innocent child, you have no idea how I suffer at his hands.” She had judged her timing perfectly. Through tears, “I was forced into marriage with him. He took me, you see, took my maidenhood; seduced me with honeyed words and empty promises.” Bitterly, “He wanted my dowry, my wealth, that was all, not me. What could I do? I wanted to tell my father it was rape, but who would listen to my word against the Pendragon?”
Fidelia was close to weeping also. Oh aye, she knew all about how the Pendragon could seduce a girl with sweet words and gentle hands.
Seating herself upon the stool Winifred patted the girl’s hand. “How I envy you your choice of a simple, kind-hearted sheep-herd.”
Fidelia was caught and bound. She, a serving girl, was sharing intimate confidences with the King of Britain’s daughter!
Winifred hurried on; she had her chance, she was not going to miss it. “He has beaten me, forced me to comply with his depraved ways.” Winifred held the girl’s hand tightly. “What harm have I ever caused him? I have been a loyal, faithful wife, while he has bedded others and openly shamed me. He keeps me here as a prisoner; has forbidden me to ride out, or go to town. I cannot write to my family or friends, am not allowed to communicate with any save those within this household and the good Father Simon. I am watched night and day by his guard.”
Those last were true. Arthur had given specific orders that his wife was not to leave the villa’s grounds, she was to be guarded at all times, and no letters written by her hand were to be sent. He did not know of the two already dispatched.
“Why should he do this to you? It is so inhuman!”
Winifred had taken a chance with the cultivation of this particular girl, assuming her to be willing to risk much for a few trinkets. But then Winifred was always shrewd. She pressed on. “He is inhuman. He is the vile spawn of a monster’s loins.” She placed both hands around the girl’s. “All I wanted was to seek a divorce. He does not want me, has no care for me, but would he grant it? No. Instead he brings me, against my will, here. Keeps me as if I were some political hostage or a criminal to be locked away. I lie abed at night wondering whether I shall ever be free, whether I shall ever be allowed to speak with my mother again.” Winifred wept, her head bowed, buried in her hands. Said through great sobs, “And even whether I shall see the coming of a new day. I fear so much that he may decide to make an end of me.”
“Oh, Lady.” Fidelia tried to comfort her, put her arm around her mistress, held her close, rocking her like a child in need of love.
Winifred, her face hidden, let slip a smile. She had her! Hooked and landed. She grasped Fidelia’s arms urgently, holding them tight. “I must get away! Get to the safety of my grandsire. Arthur cannot touch me there.” She let the girl go and hugged herself, rocking backwards and forwards on the stool. “But how can I? I am not allowed to communicate with anyone beyond this villa. Arthur has forbidden it.” She shook her head, sorrowful, dejected. “My parents do not even know whether I bore my child safely. Know not whether I live or die.” Untrue, of course, but Winifred cared little for truth.
“Lady, that is a vile, wicked thing!”
Hooked, landed and gutted.
Fidelia knelt before her mistress. “What can I do to help? Tell me and I shall do as you ask.”
The Kingmaking Page 36