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by Helen Hollick

  “I need allies, and peace among the English. I need to show Winta, and through him other Saex settlers, that we can live as friends, that we can each achieve what we desire without the need to kill. Winta is a good man and, I believe, a trustworthy one.” Taking her hand, his eyes implored her to back his reasoning as he admitted the last truth. “He intends, eventually, to call himself King of the Lindissi, the people of Lindum.”

  Her finger, that had sensuously been stroking his back, stilled. “Lindum will not much like that.”

  Arthur slid a sarcastic smile across his face. “Is there anything the people of Lindum do like?” He turned to her, serious again, his hands going around her broad figure. “Ah Gwen, so many are against me. They see no further than the ends of their noses.” He chuckled, touched his finger to the side of his own nose that was a little over-large and prominent, though not out of proportion to the firmness of his other features. “Mine is large enough, but I can see past it! I am doing right.” The burst of enthusiasm faltered. He lay back across the bed, eyes closed. “I think I do right.”

  For a moment, they were silent. Gwenhwyfar settled herself under the bed-fur, huddling into the slight warmth that remained where she had lain before. “What of Lindum?” she asked companionably, the anger quite gone. She cared nothing for the future of this withered town, in fact, took a delight in what would be greeted with horror by these arrogant, obnoxious people.

  “Trade will prosper and inter-marriages will become commonplace. It is already happening where the Saex have been settled for many years. What was British is becoming English.”

  “And that does not bother you?”

  Arthur climbed into bed, wriggled down under the furs as his wife had done. He jammed his cold feet against her for warmth. Gwenhwyfar squealed and kicked them away. When they stopped laughing, he said, “It bothers me. But it bothers me more that if I do not do this in a sensible and practical way, all that is British may become swamped and destroyed. Better to fight for the little and win, than the whole and lose.”

  “Do not doubt yourself, husband. You do the right thing.” Gwenhwyfar caressed his cheek.

  Arthur beamed a sudden grin. He sat up, grabbed her hands. “Then you will ride north with me on the morrow to meet with Winta?”

  “What!” Gwenhwyfar jolted upright.

  “He holds a feast to celebrate – this long-standing feud prompts the excess of victory. I have been invited, you also. Llacheu will love it! Winta has several sons, one his age.”

  “But I am pregnant! The babe will be born any day now,” Gwenhwyfar put a hand on her bulging abdomen, could not believe she was hearing this nonsense. “You have been back a few hours and now you are riding off again? Oh, Arthur!”

  Not hearing her, Arthur rubbed his hands together, bubbling excitement chasing away his tiredness. “It would set a future seal on this alliance were my third son to be born at Winta’s hearth.”

  “No!” Gwenhwyfar spoke with such venom that Arthur drew back.

  “No?” Astonished.

  “No. I will not give birth in some squalid, Saex hovel!”

  “Winta’s Hall is finer than some of our crumbling Roman buildings.”

  Emphatic. “No.”

  Arthur shrugged, left the bed and began searching for discarded clothing, started to dress. Would he never understand women?

  “That’s your final word?”

  “That’s my final word.”

  “I will take Llacheu – and Gwydre.”

  “Take them.”

  “Winta hopes to welcome my Lady.”

  “Then he will be disappointed.”

  Arthur laced the last fastening of his tunic, ambled towards the door. “I will see what food is in the kitchen, my stomach growls like a wounded bear. Why are you being so obstinate?”

  “Why are you being so inconsiderate?”

  He paused, said with his back to her, “Winta and I are justifiably suspicious of each other’s intentions. To show good faith I told him you will ride with me. No man intending war would bring his pregnant wife.” He had the door open. “You will come with me Gwenhwyfar. That is my final word.” He walked out.

  Gwenhwyfar hurled a pillow, its stuffing bursting through the linen as it thudded against the closing door, scattering a cloud of goose feathers.

  “Bastard!” she screamed. “Tyrant! Saex-loving cur! I will not come. I will not.”

  VII

  Midday was not much lighter than evening, with persistent drizzle turning to sleet. Gwenhwyfar tucked a bearskin tighter around her body; for what seemed the hundredth time she attempted to refasten the leather curtaining of the swaying litter. Her numbed fingers fought with the lacings; a gust of wind snarled through the opening and tore the thing from her.

  “Damn it!” she cursed. The litter jolted, forcing her to cling wildly to the side. She heaved herself back among the cushions, turning away from the flapping curtain and icy swirl of sleet beyond. A pain was niggling within her. She shut her eyes, thought, Let this not be the babe coming. Not yet! She felt sick. Her head ached and her bladder needed emptying again.

  Hooves drew alongside. Arthur leaned from the saddle and peered in. “Mithras! Are you all right? You look like death.”

  “Thank you very much!” Gwenhwyfar’s response was as barbed as the weather. “Since you are so concerned, husband, I assure you I feel ten times worse than I look.”

  “Do you want to halt a while?” Arthur had to shout, his speech blown away by the wind.

  “Aye, I want to stop. I want to climb out of this wallowing bier. I want to be in the warm and dry, within the safe confine of my rooms at Lindum.” She was screeching at him.

  Cheerily. “Not far now.”

  Through gritted teeth. “If you say that once more I will slap you.”

  Arthur grinned. “In all truth, ‘tis not far. But we will stop.” He spurred his horse forward, shouting orders.

  The litter lurched to a halt, a slave came to help her mistress from the conveyance. Out here the wind stung, assaulting the brain like a battering-ram. It tore Gwenhwyfar’s wrap from her head, whipping her hair free of pins and combs. She stumbled from the road, squatted, uncaring that there was no shelter to provide privacy. A pain shuddered through her.

  At this moment, she also cared little that she might give birth here in this frozen, lifeless wasteland. She adjusted her clothing and struggled against the wind back to the litter.

  “Lady?” Always so formal, Cei. Always speaking in neat, precise Latin. “Is something amiss? The child . . . ?” He whirled to Arthur. “I said this was foolishness!”

  Others were gathering around; Arthur himself swinging down from his horse, striding towards her. “Gwenhwyfar?”

  She gave in to fatigue and despair. “I cannot, will not, climb back into that . . .” she snapped her fingers at the litter, “that, coffin.” Her legs buckled and she slid to the ground, sat there hunched and exhausted, wishing she was dead. “I can go no further.” She sobbed, her scalding tears rolling down her cheeks to drip onto her cold, chafed hands.

  There came a lull in the wind. An eerie stillness hovered above the winter-blasted landscape. The escort, sitting astride impatient mounts, glanced nervously at each other. Snow was coming.

  Hunkered to his heels beside his wife, Arthur rubbed her iced fingers in his rough hands. “You cannot give up here, Cymraes. Not in front of the men.”

  “I can. I have.” The pain from the cold in her fingers and toes was unbearable, the other pain, low in her abdomen, unpleasantly insistent.

  “We have only two or three more miles. There will be warmth and comfort soon and women to help you.”

  “I had all that in Lindum.”

  “This is not like you, Gwen. You are strong-willed and determined, a fighter. You do not usually give in so easily.” Arthur put cheery encouragement into his voice, deliberately hiding the worry. They could not linger out here on this road; the weather was closing in, they must pr
ess on.

  Gwenhwyfar knew it as much as he, but did not care. Cared for nothing except the pain growling in her belly and the cold that was eating into her bones. “I do not usually have to travel in a sick-making litter, in the depth of winter with a babe about to be born!” Her voice was rising, her nerve nearing breaking point. If only she knew what lay ahead. She might have to birth the child in a hut that amounted to little less than a pigsty, with uncouth barbarians looking on. None would speak Latin, let alone the British tongue. What food did they eat, what customs did they follow? How did they regard childbirth? What if she bore a daughter, would they laugh at Arthur for being presented with a girl? He probably had not considered that possibility; damn it, had not considered anything!

  The few Saex Gwenhwyfar had met had been among the British people. Never had she gone among the English. She knew next to nothing of their domestic life. They were a savage race who, it was said, drank the blood of their children in sacrifice; the men were brutes and the women drunken whores. Arthur did not fear them, but he was a man in a man’s world, not a woman fearful of approaching childbirth.

  Chewing his lip, Arthur gazed out over the bleak terrain. There was a dark shadow away over to the west. He hoped it was rain, but knew it would be snow. The wind had risen again and was tearing like a cast spear across the flat land, moaning like a banshee spirit come to announce death. “Will you ride with me on Hasta?” he asked.

  Gwenhwyfar nodded dumbly, unsure whether horseback would be better or worse than the litter. He lifted her, helped her awkward weight across his horse’s withers, mounted behind her.

  Another mile and the first flakes of snow began to swirl, falling quickly, blinding eyes and agitating horses, who side-stepped and snorted, trying to turn their tails against the stinging whiteness. Arthur grimly kept Hasta to a steady walk, his hand tight on the rein, the animal dancing beneath the unaccustomed double weight. Once, Hasta’s hooves slipped on a patch of ice, his hind legs skidding. Arthur cursed as he heard Gwenhwyfar, leaning heavily against him, groan. He let the reins slacken for the horse to find his own balance.

  The ride was a nightmare. Arthur cursed himself; the idea had been a good one, an unparalleled gesture of friendship with the people of the Humbrenses. What use gestures if he killed his wife in carrying them out? Even above the wind, he could hear Llacheu wailing from the second litter, and Gwydre’s accompanying screaming. The children had slept for most this day’s journey, but they were now cold and hungry. Would they never reach Winta’s settlement!

  Cei, riding to his left, pointed suddenly, peering through the swirling whiteness. “There, smoke! Look, Winta Ingas Ham.”

  “Thank the gods! Gwen,” Arthur spoke soft in her ear. “Cymraes, we are here.”

  Gwenhwyfar did not answer. She burrowed her head deeper into his wolf-skin cloak. His arms tight about her waist, Arthur felt her body shudder.

  “Cymraes? You are not afraid?”

  She nodded, desperately fighting more tears. “I know nothing of them, Arthur. Nothing.”

  “You do. You know Winta wishes to make lasting peace and that his people are ordinary people. As ordinary as you or I.”

  “Na, I do not know that,” Gwenhwyfar lifted her head, tears brimming. “I have heard things about them, terrible things.”

  “And you believe them?” Arthur tossed back his head and laughed. “Were you not told as a child that the demons would come for you if you were bad? You believed as a child, but saw reason when you grew. It’s only ignorance that breeds fear, Cymraes. We fear the English because we know nothing of their ways or their gods. Because their customs and laws are different from ours we assume they are mindless, uncivilised men and women. Not so long since I thought that too. Now I know the truth. I assure you, they are not monsters.”

  Arthur did not hear her mumbled answer for the wooden palisade surrounding the village was looming ahead. The watch had seen their approach and the gate was opening, the English running to meet them, waving, smiling, calling enthusiastic greeting.

  “I would to all the gods I could have faith in you, husband,” Gwenhwyfar muttered, wincing as a spasm of pain arched through her. She did not look up, did not want to see as they rode through the gate. She recognised the sound of it thudding shut, heard and sensed the swell of people pressing close. Her eyes were shut, she kept them shut. It seemed safer that way.

  Winta himself strode through the settling snow to greet Arthur, his arms extended, his bearded face beaming pleasure. At his side walked a tall woman, her head covered with a linen veil in the fashion of the English.

  Arthur’s smile was broad. He urged Hasta into a trot the last few strides, leant down to clasp Winta’s outstretched hand, their combined grasp firm and strong with friendship.

  “Greetings, my Lord Winta. I come in peace.”

  “All Hail to you, my Lord King, I welcome you in peace.”

  Gwenhwyfar risked opening her eyes, saw through tear-blurred vision a tumble of wattle-built houses and a large gathering of fair-skinned people. A sound, half scream half moan, left her. She clutched her belly with one hand, fumbled for Arthur’s strong arm with the other.

  “Gwenhwyfar!” Arthur cradled his wife, realised the wetness on her face was not only snow; her panting breath was not from fear and tiredness. “Mithras! The child comes!”

  Winta’s wife hurried forward, took one brief look at Gwenhwyfar’s contorted face and with a few explicit words sent slaves scurrying to prepare for an imminent birth.

  Arthur leapt from Hasta, lifted Gwenhwyfar down and the Englishwoman swept her from him. Gwenhwyfar no longer cared; nothing mattered, nothing, except this god-awful pain. She felt as though she were being torn in two, one wave crashing after the other, leaving her gasping and sweating.

  Other Englishwomen flurried round, shepherding her to a small, rectangular hut. One of many clustered beside a central-built Hall that soared grandly upward to meet the low press of snow-thick cloud. Vaguely, Gwenhwyfar realised the Great Hall looked little different from her childhood home of Caer Arfon. The carvings were English spirits, English gods and fancies, and perhaps the roof sloped more steeply, but little else.

  A central hearth-fire burnt cheerfully inside their destined chamber, beeswax candles providing plentiful light. Furs and hides hung among bright woven tapestries, masking the plainness of the daub-plastered walls and muffling any draughts. A deep carpet of herb-strewn reeds covered the floor. Chattering, tutting concern, the women removed Gwenhwyfar’s heavy cloak and her sodden boots and dress, rubbed life into her chilled feet and hands and dried her wet, wind-matted hair. They covered her shivering body with a warm, soft quilt stuffed with goose down. Someone spooned a few sips of broth past her lips. It warmed her from the inside, tasted good. She would have liked more, but a birthing chair appeared and someone, Gwenhwyfar knew not who, but thought it could have been Winta’s wife, inspected the birth canal.

  Strange voices in a strange tongue floated between the searing redness of labour pains. Then Winta’s wife was leaning over her, stroking her damp hair, holding her hand. She was smiling, her voice soft, speaking perfect, cultured Latin.

  “The child comes quickly. Have you had the birth pains long?”

  Gwenhwyfar nodded, managed to gasp. “Aye, but not as severe.”

  The gather of women had left, and aside from her own panting breath, the room had fallen quiet. The flames, bursting out their brilliance of warmth and light, hissed and cracked in the hearth, flaring and sparking occasionally as the one remaining woman aside from Winta’s wife, added wood as needed. The wind snarled beyond the doors and walls, angered that it could not get inside to destroy this comfort with its iced breath. The door fur lifted and Enid, herself dried, warmed and fed, entered quickly, ducking in with a blast of winter weather, shutting it out again by the closing of the door.

  As she removed her cloak and outdoor boots, exchanging them for doe-hide house shoes, Winta’s wife wiped the sweat from Gwenhwyfar�
��s forehead and said, “Here is your own woman come to help us, my dear. All is ready to welcome the child.”

  Releasing a shaking breath, Gwenhwyfar risked a glance at the tall, well-dressed woman squatting before her. “I know not your name, but I thank you,” she attempted a smile, “for your kindness.”

  “I am Hild. This is Eadburg.” She gestured to the other woman who was busying herself near the fire. “She is much skilled with the matters of birthing. Your husband was wrong to bring you.”

  Gwenhwyfar grimaced as another contraction came and passed. They were stronger now, more rapid. The English are good people, Arthur had said. She stretched her hand, took Hild’s fast in it. “Na, he was right. He’s always right.” Another deep breath to control the tearing inside her body. “My sons,” she panted as it faded, “where are they?”

  “Housed with my own childer.”

  And Enid was there, taking Gwenhwyfar’s hand, smiling reassurance. “I have seen them well settled, my Lady. Llacheu is filling his belly with a third helping of chicken broth and Gwydre already is sleeping.”

  Satisfied all else was well, Gwenhwyfar was content to allow the room to recede into distant sound; her baby was coming and nothing would end the pain of the birth force, save his safe arrival.

  A time later, how long Gwenhwyfar was unaware – a moment, a lifetime – someone was speaking to her, calm but insistent. She was to ease her breathing, the female voice said, to pant. “Hold back, my dear, if you push now you will tear.”

  A flurry of movement, shadows leaping high on the wall with the sudden flare of the fire. Gwenhwyfar’s arms flailed, no one stood beside her, she felt suddenly alone, frightened. “Do not leave me!” she screamed. Someone grasped her hand, held it, firm, strong fingers entwined in her own. Hild.

  “We are here. There is naught to fear.” A pause, talking in the English tongue, then a squeeze of pressure from Hild on her hand. Excited, elated. “I see the head, dark hair! Push now, push with all your strength.”