Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  With, the Christian ceremony over, its solemn pledging of vows and the Bishop’s intoned blessing completed, the guests were demanding feasting and revelry, both of which Gwenhwyfar, in the name of her Lord, Arthur the Pendragon, was intending to give in grand and unforgettable style. Wild boar, venison, roasted fowl and hare; basted pork and tender young mutton; the best imported wines, ale in plenty and the sweet, heady apple-mead so well brewed in these Summer Lands. Musicians played, acrobats, dancers, conjurors with their sleight-of-hand tricks and astounding illusions provided a wondrous variety of entertainment. It seemed the whole world had trooped to Caer Cadan!

  The Hall was crammed with the higher nobility, petty kings and lords; from Dyfed, Powys, Rheged, Dumnonia – respected men from Arthur’s subject lands. Among them, Gwenhwyfar’s brothers, come from Gwynedd. How could she not delight in such, most welcome, company? In addition, filling those sought-after spaces at table or ale-barrel, were the elders, merchantmen and traders: a clamour indeed, of talk and laughter! Open invitation had been sent by swift messengers to the four winds – and they had responded with an alacrity to put those pressing for Arthur’s demise to shame. Outside, too, beyond the light and noise of the King’s Hall, were lesser revellers, over many to count, with such a whirl of dancing, feasting and drinking. Clustered groups seated around the well-stacked fires, knots of men and women gathered in discussion, sharing laughter and good-natured debate. And all with their wives and children and servants. Everywhere, there came a bustling exuberance of laughter and merriment, gay contrast to the dour proceedings at Ambrosius’s summoned Council at Yns Witrin.

  At that Council Ambrosius’s men, his declared supporters and sympathisers, had publicly declared for him – but with what practicality? They were, compared to the multitude gathered here, a minority, if outspoken, voice. Ambrosius had his embryonic army of the Ambrosiani but they were not the elite, proud force of Arthur’s followers, men who had made free choice to fight beneath the King’s banner.

  No one in this Hall would, this day, dare go openly against their King, and the loyalty would last a while, at least long enough. For Arthur surely – surely – was to be home soon. Aye, this wedding had been well timed, for all its unplanned spontaneity!

  Only Ambrosius and those few of the Church hierarchy to attend were sitting stone-faced, aware they had been successfully outmanoeuvred for a while. Ambrosius sat at the high table, talking occasionally, observing the merriment with drawn brows and unsmiling expression, his eye going repeatedly to his son and new-taken wife. That this marriage was a parody and nothing short of disaster was, to him, an obvious fact; yet the girl was smiling, and Cadwy seemed more animated and at ease than ever his father had seen him before. Could this union prove worthwhile? Was there some small hope? A grandson would be too much to pray for, too presumptive a gift to ask of God. Yet were it possible? Ambrosius dismissed the thought. How could it be so? He observed also Gwenhwyfar and her obvious determination to prove she was no longer ailing, that death had been successfully cheated. He was ignorant of the Pendragon’s deep misery. The messenger, he had sent in all good faith, wishing to inform a king of his wife’s illness, to warn of her last days. Ambrosius was a proud man, but he was not vindictive or callous. He could not know his sent word had been received incorrectly, that Arthur thought Gwenhwyfar dead – nor that all subsequent communication, both written and verbal had been delayed or misdirected. Had not been delivered.

  So, in as much innocence and ignorance as Gwenhwyfar, he watched her as she danced and talked, laughed and sang, appearing as if she had never been ill. Watched, unaware that on the morrow her body would ache and the tiredness would return. That was Gwenhwyfar’s knowledge alone, a lingering weakness that at all costs must be shielded from public view. For leaderless, the lords would drift to Ambrosius’s hearth. Discomfort was for the next day, this was the now. A now where she had to show these men – and Ambrosius Aurelianus – that were an army to be brought against the rightful King, his Queen would be strong enough to draw her sword and lead one even greater in his name.

  For Ragnall and Cadwy, the day had begun as an ordeal. Neither of them particularly easy in company, both timid and shy of strangers, they had found themselves unwillingly cast as principal players in this whirlpool of joyful celebration. Ragnall, still frightened of the threat of death hanging over her – though Gwenhwyfar and many others had repeatedly assured her of the invalidity of that punishment – attempted to smile, to show happiness. But other fears were crowding her, fears real and imaginary. Together, they had shuffled a few brief, stumbling steps, as custom decreed, to begin the dancing. Holding Cadwy’s hand awkwardly, Ragnall had wondered at his motive for taking her as bride. She had no beauty, only ugliness, no grace or elegance. He knew not enough of her to be aware of the laughter that longed to escape from deep inside her, nor did he know of her sweet singing voice or her love of tale-telling. He did not know her at all, for until this day they had been apart since the ordeal of shame and fear at Yns Witrin. Nor did she know him, but this did not matter. He had given her the gift of freedom – albeit that freedom might be shortlived, for no woman could be certain how a husband would treat her in marriage – his features were strong, his countenance gentle and compassionate. He did not seem a man who would tend to violence towards his lady. Ragnall did not mind his limping, his awkward gait, for she saw only her own ungainliness. Wished so much that she might find some way of pleasing him as wife.

  Cadwy, for his part, was as mindful of his own disability. How must she think of him as he shuffled and lurched those few, embarrassingly public steps? Acutely, was he aware of the glances and smothered sniggers. For all the joyfulness, the comments directed at the couple who had caused the celebrations were overloud and over-rude. Cadwy reddened at the cruel jesting, his fist clenching, schooling his expression to remain plain, untroubled, but Ragnall saw, read the thoughts behind his narrowing eyes. Took his discomfort as shame of her.

  Her fear increased as the afternoon drifted into evening. With the dark would come the other part of the ceremony, the final, complete taking of a wife. Could she endure it, the snide comments, the cruel thoughts? How could a man take her into his bed? What enjoyment or pleasure could her gross deformity give? Ah no, there was little happiness in Ragnall’s heart, for she knew that once in the privacy of their bridal chamber, Cadwy would drop his mask of restraint and show his abhorrence of her.

  Winifred, among the guests, was all smiles, enjoying herself immensely. The invitation to attend this day’s merriment had been a general one – one Winifred had determined not to miss. Mischief was so much the easier discharged among a large and prestigious gathering. Smug, as she always was, she observed with amusement Ambrosius’s obvious discomfort. Her first words to him, upon her immediate arrival, were to the effect she regarded his approval of this marriage as a slight against her.

  “At least I could have bred you a grandson with four limbs and an intelligent brain. One wonders what her spawn will resemble!” That her barb had struck home was clearly evident. Ambrosius’s grim reaction told, all too plain, his thoughts were dwelling along those same lines. He could not, of course, know Winifred was delighted by this preposterous marriage; for the ending of Ambrosius’s line. All the better for her purposes of Cerdic’s inheritance and for the annulment of her own, highly rash, suggestion that had been instantly regretted. Not that she would have, for a moment, expected Ambrosius to agree to the idea. Still, she really ought not make such ill-judged offers again. And a third reason to enjoy the occasion: a rare chance to stir the political waters and annoy Gwenhwyfar with the one muddied stick! A pity the wretched woman had recovered. Ambrosius, in Winifred’s considered opinion, had missed his chance there. Had she been consulted, Arthur’s wife would not have survived. Easily enough achieved, with the result uncontested.

  Making her way slowly around the edge of the uproar of lively, drink-heightened dancing, Winifred paused to gossip here and there, t
ossing in her little comments, poking, digging. Ambrosius was a fool. Poison was the answer to so many riddles.

  A rustle of movement spread through the Hall like a wafting breeze. Winifred’s eyebrows rose, anticipating more interest, more fuel to heat the next few months with gathered tattle. It was time for the couple to depart for the bedchamber. Winifred closed her eyes briefly, sent a swift, silent prayer of reprieve. Woden’s breath! This could have been herself needing to face the ordeal of bedding with a youth who was only half a man! She rose from her seat, joined with the general throng of guests pushing their way towards the upper end of the Hall. Winifred quirked a smile that tilted half her mouth, her mind anticipating the scene of these two unfortunates attempting to create a mild spark of passion in their bed. She had forgotten her own comments to Ambrosius; it was not Cadwy’s manhood that needed the crutch.

  Ragnall stood, her hand placed lightly within Cadwy’s before the open door of Gwenhwyfar’s own chamber that was for this night to be theirs. She ensured her head was tucked well down; her veil she had replaced as soon as possible during the evening, had pulled it well forward. They were all laughing at her, she knew, sniggering and exchanging lewd, vulgar whispers. It always happened on occasions like this, so she was informed, a part of the ceremony. She would not know, personally, for never before had she attended a marriage celebration. She had not been old enough at her father’s stronghold, and weddings were not the thing of a nunnery.

  Cadwy, too, was nervous although he took the humour with courage. He knew his own capabilities, even if they did not. But what of her? How was this intimacy to be concluded for Ragnall?

  Gwenhwyfar stepped forward, raised her hand for silence, parried a few hecklers, a few tossed jests with quick, amiable wit. “My lords and honoured guests,” she said, when quiet had eventually settled enough for her to be heard. “The night grows late, already the moon is high and full. I fear that come the morrow I will be left with a surfeit of roasted meats and fine wines.” More calls, shouts of disagreement. “No, I agree with you, sir, I hope indeed all the wine will be consumed, but I fear it will not be so!” Gwenhwyfar indicated the great oak doors that were swinging inward, the guests turned, shuffling feet, murmuring, questioning. Four men were rolling in a great cask, trundled it to the centre of the Hall, where they manoeuvred it upright, began the task of prising away the sealing wax from the lid.

  “My guests, there has been a grave oversight,” Gwenhwyfar apologised. “This fine barley-wine was overlooked. I considered it right that it be brought in to you straight’way, for I believe it to be of the finest brewing. Please, sample its taste.”

  They surged forward almost as one, pushing and jostling for their tankards, glasses and goblets to be filled. Cleverly done, for in that first moment when all attention was focused on the issuing of the most prized of all wines, Gwenhwyfar swivelled around and hastily ushered Cadwy and Ragnall through the door into her chamber. “You will have privacy,” she said. “Bolt the door, none shall dare attempt to open it beyond perhaps hurling a brief flurry of jests.” She smiled at Ragnall, a reassuring warmth of comfort, dipped her head at Cadwy. “I bid you both a good night.” And she withdrew, shut the door, waited a moment until she heard the two bolts slide deftly into place.

  There was a token exclamation of disapproval, a few half-hearted disappointed comments, but the barley-wine was, as Gwenhwyfar had promised, an exceptional brew, and most gathered in that Hall had been dreading the traditional ceremony as much as the bridal couple. After all, just how did you put two disfigured cripples together into a marriage bed? Both men and women found the thought abhorrent, neither sex willing to admit outright the ideal of a marriage partner was for beauty and strength, virility and passion. Hardly qualities of those two!

  Na, the wine held better interest. There could be no embarrassment in emptying the contents of such fine, strong-brewed stuff!

  XXXVII

  The sounds of enjoyment beyond the bolted door were loud, but indistinct, muffled, although the occasional roar of laughter came clearer, more startling.

  Cadwy sat on a stool close to the fire, nursing a goblet and leaning forward, his arms resting heavily on his thighs. He had made no attempt to prepare for bed, just sat, staring into the flames, occasionally sipping at the wine. The confusion, the conflict of emotions were whirling in him with all the force of a snow-melt mountain stream. Gushing and tumbling, going this way then that.

  For a while, Ragnall had stood close to the door. He had politely offered her wine also, but she had, as politely, declined. He had attempted to persuade her to sit, but adamantly she had remained standing. For perhaps half of one hour they stayed in their chosen positions with no sound passing, save the crackle of the fire and the revelry beyond that shut door.

  Ragnall moved first. Although she was nervous, frightened of the future, of what tomorrow would bring, she had to put an end to this unbearable silence.

  Cadwy looked up to see her kneeling before him, her head bent, veil tipping forward to hide all her face. He wanted to reach out, touch her, show her she had no need to be feared of him, but he could not. He did not have the courage or the boldness. Did not know where, or how, to begin.

  “Am I so displeasing to you?” she quivered. “If,” her voice was little more than a tremulous whisper, “if we were to extinguish the lamps, my disfigurement would be hidden from you.”

  Ashamed of himself, inwardly cursing his rudeness and lack of thought by ignoring her for so long, Cadwy tipped her face up, his fingers gentle under her chin. With his other hand, he slid the restricting silk from her head. Her disfigured side was away from the fire, blurred in shadow, and the side of her face that was lit showed her to be a young woman who could easily, were it not for misfortune, have been handsome.

  “Na,” he said, “I like you as you are; the flicker of lamp and fire light strikes pleasing colours in your hair.” He surprised himself, it was no idle comment, for it was true. She had black, raven hair, which shimmered like the polished jet beads of a woman’s earrings or necklace. He toyed for a while with a strand, sliding its softness between his fingers, then ran them down the smooth skin of her cheek, soft and supple beneath his touch. “You are not displeasing,” he said, with truth on his lips. He sighed, “Yet, I must be a disappointment to you.” Forcing a self-mocking laugh, he indicated his twisted leg. Her response was immediate, defensive.

  “Not so, my Lord!” She blushed, lowered her eyes from his. “I find you most,” she hesitated, risked a quick glance at him, “most pleasing.”

  A surge of hope coursed through Cadwy, hope and pleasure, the despondency and doubts beginning to waver. Something Gwenhwyfar had said at Yns Witrin, that day when they were baying for Ragnall to die, came suddenly back to his mind. So deep wallowed was he in his present despair, he had forgotten it until now. ‘You are both most suited,’ she had said.

  Aye, they were! They were indeed! He snorted laughter, took Ragnall’s hands in his, leant forward and attempted a tentative kiss. She responded, eager, with no fear or sign of revulsion. His second kiss lingered, and he found his hands to be going tighter around her, wandering, more intimate.

  Breathless, flushed, they broke apart as a bellow of laughter sounded from beyond the door, as someone heavy of build crashed against it. Their faces turned together, alarmed, embarrassed, but there came nothing more, save loud voices. The new-married couple, it seemed, had become forgotten.

  “What a pair we are!” Cadwy smiled. “Each of us uncertain of our appearance to the other. We both know full well,” he nodded over his shoulder, jerking a look at the door, “what they think of us. Need we question ourselves also? Even if we are fools about all else, we at least know how painful those sneering glances and barely whispered comments are.”

  Ragnall’s answer was spoken with the tears thick in her voice. “If it would please you,” she offered, “I can wear my veil full over my face while in public. I will not shame you.”

 
; Incredulous, Cadwy rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. How could she think so ill of him? “I am not ashamed of you!” he protested hotly. “Indeed, I have a pride in you, pride for your courage and determination! Your voice has such a sweet sound. Your goodness is as obvious as winter berries on the holly tree. I would not hide you from the world! Why, your…”

  But Ragnall, blushing at this sudden outpouring, put her fingers to his lips, stopping him from talking. No one, save for Gwenhwyfar, had cared to speak so kindly to her. “I am not used to such compliments,” she declared. “More of this and my head will be turned!” Confused, and more than a little embarrassed, she moved away from him, steadying her quick breathing, taking time for her hot face to cool. For want of something to do with her hands, she took up the jug of wine, refilled his goblet.

  She tried again to sort some form of sense from this whirl of inexplicable madness. “If it is my voice that pleases you so much, I can wear my veil when I am alone with you, so my disfigurement shall not spoil your pleasure.”

  “There is no need,” Cadwy began, and she crumpled to her knees, sinking down to the rushes where she squatted, hunched, miserable and shaking, weeping. His run was hobbled, but urgent. He hunkered next to her, took her, cradling her into his arms, again and again asking with desperation what was wrong. What had he said to upset her?

  At last she managed to control herself, to ease the sobbing, to gulp a few words. “Do I try to hide this ugliness from your dear eyes, or from the discomfort of others who sneer and talk behind your back? I know not what to do! Know not which way to please you.”