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by Helen Hollick

  “I have not enough strength.”

  “You have!”

  Gwenhwyfar felt arms encircle her from behind, a body with the suppleness of a willow and the strength of an oak brace against her own. She arched her back against the Englishwoman and together they brought the child safe into the world. Her body felt as though it were being ripped apart but she ignored the pain, one more, one more effort and it would all be over.

  The pain went, suddenly, abruptly. Relieved, joyous laughter from the two Englishwomen and Enid mingled with a baby’s thin wail of protest. Hild left Gwenhwyfar, took up the child from Eadburg and held it, a wet, wrinkled, angry little thing, out to his mother. For a moment Gwenhwyfar hesitated, sweat dripping from her face down her chin to soak her soiled gown.

  What are the customs here, she wondered, suddenly panicked. What if I do, say, something amiss?

  Uncertain, the babe in her arms, Hild remained motionless, concerned that she had done something wrong in offering the child straight to his mother. She glanced with a question at Enid.

  “You have a fine son,” Enid said at Gwenhwyfar’s side, “who has his da’s bellowing temper.” That small moment of confusion passed; Gwenhwyfar smiled, took the new life from Hild’s arms and gathered him to her, the pain and fear all forgotten.

  “What name do you have for him?” Hild asked.

  Gwenhwyfar looked up at the Englishwoman, frowned. “It is for the father to acknowledge and name his son after the birthing, not for the mother to choose.”

  Hild turned away to deal with the expelling of the afterbirth. “For us,” she said, “we share in the deciding before the birth, there is a name ready for the gods to know so that they might straightway welcome the new son or daughter to the hearth-place.” She shook her head. What strange customs these British followed!

  Arthur entered quietly, surprising a young slave dozing before the fire; she leapt to her feet, her eyes wide and fearful. It occurred to him that it was not just his own kind who were lacking in trust; these English held the same feelings for the British. He held his hands before him, palms down, fingers spread, and emphasised his smile. He knew a few words of her own language. Pointing to himself then to her, said, “Freond, ja? Friend?”

  She smiled understanding, amused at his poor pronunciation. She nodded. “Freond.”

  Holding the door covering aside, Arthur gestured for her to leave. She shook her head, pointed from herself to a sleeping fur in one corner. He let the skin fall, motioned her towards her bed, understanding she had orders to stay.

  Then he crossed to his wife, sat gently on the edge of the wooden box-bed. Gwenhwyfar stirred, looked up at him.

  “We have a third son,” she said.

  He laughed, “You were drowsy I know, but I have seen him, remember? I named him Amr.”

  She frowned, then remembering, smiled. “It seems an age ago, a dream world. Strange, now it is over, I barely remember the pain, only the pleasure of holding our son.” She took Arthur’s hand, twining her fingers into his, welcoming his company. “Hild says it is like that for most women.” She sighed, relaxed her bruised body into the warmth of the bed, drowsing back into sleep. “I like her.”

  Chuckling, Arthur bent forward to kiss her mouth.

  “Of course you do. I said you would.”

  April 460

  VIII

  Winifred delighted in showing her handsome-built Hall and flourishing farmsteading to visitors, no matter who they were: men or women of the Church, traders, harpers. English, British, or foreigners from Hibernia, Gaul, and beyond. All were welcome at Winifred’s hearth, and word had spread fast along the sea-lanes and traveller’s tracks of where good wine and a warm belly could be obtained for the price of telling the news on the wind. Visitors were rare at first, when Arthur had divorced her and so cruelly set her aside and dumped her here, two miles down-river from the mouldering Roman town of Venta Bulgarium. But Winifred was a woman who would not be casually discarded on the midden heap and left to rot. Her pride was too important, and the son she had borne Arthur, even more so.

  She was three and twenty, not the beauty her mother had been, but a handsome enough woman. Like all Christian holy women, her flaxen-blonde hair remained covered beneath a veil and her dress was black, with only a dangling gold crucifix and girdle keys for decoration. Plain dress could not hide the vivid blue of her eyes; eyes that had snared Arthur, once, seven years past when she had decided to have him as her husband.

  Princess she had been then, only daughter of the Supreme King Vortigern and his English Queen Rowena, child of the Saxon, King Hengest. No one called her princess now, for Winifred insisted on her other title, the one taken up when Arthur had placed a marriage band on her finger and spoken the vows of God’s Holy Law with her. Lady Pendragon.

  Signalling for the next course to be served, Winifred fluttered an alluring smile at the man seated next to her at the high table. Below, along the length of trestle tables set in rows down the Hall, sat the men and women of her steading and the men of her guest. He was no noble, highborn or Church official, but Wulfric the Trader was nonetheless important to Winifred. He plied his trade from all ports along the Saxon shore, across to Gaul and Less Britain, Juteland, Saxony and up as far as the North Way, exchanging brocades and silks and herbs and spices; corn, ale and wine; crafted jewellery, pottery, hunting dogs, animal skins, slaves. He was welcome too, in the British places. Towns such as Eboracum and Caer Gloui; towns where the gossip buzzed and blossomed. Gossip of the King, Arthur. Winifred liked to know of him, where he was going, where he had been, for she refused to accept the divorce he had petitioned on her. Cerdic, her son by Arthur, would be the next Pendragon, not Gwenhwyfar’s brats.

  And to ensure it, she needed to know everything of Arthur and his Gwynedd-born slut. For knowledge was power.

  She served pork to Wulfric, offered him the roasted skin, crisp and succulent to chew on. The trader beamed his pleasure, laughed as he drank her health with her finest ale. Later, in the privacy of Winifred’s splendidly furnished chamber, they would get to the serious business, the agreement and settling of payment for the cloth and goods that she had selected. Winifred always paid well, often in excess, for she held her own fortune. And it was not only the fineries she was buying: the talk over private-shared wine and haggling was the real purchase.

  So, Wulfric drank the lady’s health and laughed with her, and when the feasting ended followed her from the Hall through the door at the rear, to tell her what he had gleaned of the Pendragon. Of the alliance with the Humbrenses and the granting of land to Icel; that the King’s Council were discussing ways – legal and not so legal – to oppose and be rid of him, and that trouble was brewing in the high lands up above the Wall. But then, there would be, with that witch-woman flourishing word that she was to be called queen. Of her, he would not talk. To speak of that one was bad luck; Morgause was not a name to cross an honest trader’s lips. Wulfric touched his amulet, the Thor’s hammer at his throat, as her image spurred into his mind. A woman, so it was said, more beautiful even than a goddess. And more deadly than a snake!

  The Pendragon would have to ride north to settle the pretensions of Morgause and her weakling husband, of that there was no doubt.

  It was said that Arthur had sent messengers to summon Lot south to explain his wife’s treasonous actions and the messengers had been returned in a wooden chest. Parts of them, their heads and privates. Of that, Wulfric would not speak either. Let Winifred discover it from one of her British tale-tellers! If the Pendragon was planning to ride north and deal personally with the witch, then it was his concern, not a Saex sea-trader’s. He drank more wine, took the gold Winifred offered and stowed it safe in his waist pouch. But he would have to tell her of the other thing, for already it was becoming common knowledge now the winter snows were clearing. He had been enjoying his stay, the welcome and hospitality much to his liking, but he would be lucky to escape the room before the wine jugs smashed over
his head and against the walls when he told the Lady Pendragon of a third son born to the Queen.

  IX

  Gwenhwyfar could not decide which to choose, the pale ivory silk or the gold-thread brocade. Both were lovely – expensive – but highest quality dictated highest price. Hild was known for her purchasing of such luxury stuff and the traders and seafarers made trips often up the river to Winta’s settlement with their wares, knowing they would be welcomed and leave with their purses full.

  Enid was fingering a heavy plaid weave with her free hand, her other hand supporting the baby, Amr, draped sound in sleep over her shoulder, his fat fists dangling down her back, face snuggled into her neck. “This would make a fine winter’s cloak,” she said with a wistful sigh of longing.

  Gwenhwyfar was in a generous mood; the easy contentment of these English people had purged her weariness and anxieties. She laughed. “Have it then, as my gift.” She draped the silk about her upper torso, relishing its sensuous feel beneath her fingers, asked “What think you? Shall I have this or,” she reached for the brocade, “this?”

  Delighted at the extent of his sales on this trip, but trying desperately to mask any excessive pleasure, Wulfric ambled towards Gwenhwyfar from around the far side of the spread of jumbled bolts of material. “That is an exceptional silk, my Lady,” he crooned, “and alas, ‘tis the last I have, for I sold most of it at an earlier place of call.”

  Gwenhwyfar was only half listening; traders always made much of their sales banter. He would be telling her next how much the previous lady had paid for the cloth and how lucky Gwenhwyfar was to have this last at the cheaper price. Traders were the same the world over, she supposed, whether they were British, Roman, English or whatever. Only he did not, said instead, as he took a step closer to fashion the hang of silk more attractively about her. “It sits well against your hair colouring, Lady, better than the lady from Venta Bulgarium.”

  She looked sharply up at him, her green eyes sparking a quick flash of anger, for he had not spoken without deliberation. “The lady of Venta would not be pleased to hear you say so,” she responded scathingly.

  Wulfric chuckled. “Ah, but she is not likely to hear my words is she? You most certainly will not tell her.” He laughed again, took the silk and began folding it, careful of its delicate fineness. He had more to say, Gwenhwyfar could see, from the way his eye slipped to hers and from the way he kept near, not moving aside even though two of Hild’s ladies had made their choosing over what to buy.

  “She bade me,” Wulfric murmured as he passed the folded silk to the Queen, “to convey her greeting to you. She wishes you and your sons all health.”

  Winifred. Arthur’s cursed, first wife, Winifred. Gwenhwyfar’s eyes narrowed and she ignored the proffered cloth, held the trader’s glinting gaze with her own hard stare. That half-breed, two-faced, lying, murdering, Saex bitch! Winifred, who refused to accept Arthur’s divorce from her. Who insisted her own son was to be the Pendragon’s heir.

  Scornful, Gwenhwyfar asked, “And what would Lady Winifred be doing with the buying of such fine silk?” She flicked the stuff contemptuously with her fingers, “I heard she wore the drab of a Holy Woman.”

  Wulfric shrugged, set the silk on the table among the other materials, replied, “I know very little of Christian women, my Lady. What they wear beneath those harsh black garments is their business.”

  There came a movement at the door to Hild’s women-filled bower and a slave scuttled in, bringing with her a rise of noise from Winta’s Hall where the men would be deepening into their drink and gaming. She bobbed a hasty reverence, nodding apology at the interruption towards Hild. “Begging pardon, Lady, there’s been fighting in the Hall, both the young cubs are battle-bloodied.”

  Hild exchanged a hasty glance with Gwenhwyfar, whose hand had gone to her mouth. Boys! How easily lured they were to quarrelling and fighting.

  Hild had four sons. At four and one half years, the same age as Gwenhwyfar’s Llacheu, Oswin felt himself to be pig in the middle of his brothers, two older and one younger. When Llacheu came to his father’s village Oswin’s life perceptibly improved, for he had a litter cub to run with now, someone to romp with in the fresh-laid bedding of the cow-byre, a friend to join in the tickling of the huge fish languishing in the steading’s fish pools. And Llacheu was fiercer than any hound bred in Winta’s kennels! Llacheu was a wolfling, the son of the Pendragon and afraid of nothing, not even Oswin’s eldest brother Eadric, who was eight. For that, Oswin loved Llacheu.

  As evening fell and the Englishmen feasted, the two friends tumbled with the hounds at the far end of the Hall, squabbling with the dogs for a few choice bones to chew on, though both boy and hound had already been fed. Llacheu cuffed a brindled dog aside and sucked the marrow from the bone in his hand.

  The women were long gone to Hild’s bower, leaving the men to their drinking. The boys could creep nearer the hearth now and listen to the stories and riddles. Last night a riddle had been asked that sent everyone into roars of merriment. Llacheu had not understood why it was so funny and had asked Enid the meaning of it this morning, earning for himself a smack to the ear and a rebuke about listening to adult talk.

  He thought again on the words he had repeated. “He had his way and both of them were shaking, the man worked hard, his capable servant was useful at times, but strong as he was he always tired sooner than she did, exhausted by the task.” Why Enid had gone so red and embarrassed Llacheu had no idea. The answer had been ‘churning butter’, what was so amusing or wrong about that? Perhaps he had missed some vital clue in the riddle’s asking. He hoped they would repeat it tonight; he would listen more carefully if they did.

  Da would have explained it of course, but Da had been gone several weeks, riding with his men down to the south to settle some disagreement with the Council. He had been in a foul temper for the few days before his going, something had annoyed him concerning Uncle Emrys. Llacheu did not much like Uncle Emrys, a man who made Da angry and Mam unhappy.

  Oswin caught Llacheu’s attention and together they wriggled across the rush-covered floor towards the central hearth. The eating tables had been cleared and men sat about in groups, talking and playing board games or burnishing weapons, mending leather harness or war-gear. They were all drinking; the mead flowed free in Winta’s generous Hall.

  They managed to work their way unnoticed behind a group of men playing taefl, and sat with their toes stretched to the warmth of the fire. Oswin was about to say something to Llacheu when there came a thump on his shoulders that sent him sprawling. He jumped up, words of protest on his lips, fell silent as his older brother’s hand came out to cuff him around the head. “You are in my place, squirt. Clear off.”

  Hiding his fear and hurt, Oswin bit his lip. He plucked at his friend’s sleeve, intending to scuttle away but Llacheu sitting obstinate among the rushes said, “We got here first. This is our place.”

  Eadric’s eyes narrowed, his self-importance weighted with the security of his position as eldest. He saw no reason to sit in a draught when two piss-brained kids were hogging the warmth. Not used to being answered back, he hurled an insult, jabbing at Llacheu’s shoulder with his finger as he spoke. “Who do you think you’re talking to? You Wealas bastard!” He made to strike the boy – and found himself toppling backwards.

  Llacheu’s head-butt winded the older boy, the move coming so unexpected. Climbing again to his feet Eadric casually began to brush off the reeds sticking to his woollen bracae, and almost within the same movement, lunged to grab at Llacheu’s hair. Dragging the younger lad to his knees, his other hand slapped at his face. Bravely, though there was a difference in age and height, Llacheu fought back. He was the eldest son of the Pendragon, and no Saex whelp was going to insult the next Pendragon by calling him a fatherless foreigner!

  Pummelling and kicking, his fists striking at chest and belly, feet at shins and toes, Llacheu hurled all his strength behind his fury, and Oswin suddenly fou
nd a courage he did not know he possessed. Yelling, he leapt on Eadric’s back, his feet kicking, one hand holding his hair, the other punching at head and body. Two against one; Eadric tried to shake them off, tripped, the three of them crashed down into the men, the playing pieces of their board game were scattered in all directions and the mead cups knocked over.

  Cursing, the adults wiped at the drink spilt down their tunics. One grabbed at Eadric, others at Llacheu and Oswin, hauled them apart, shaking them, bellowing their anger at the disturbance. Eadric’s nose was spouting blood, Llacheu and Oswin each sported a blackening eye. A hush descended, men stepped aside, the boys looked up. Winta stood before them.

  “I like not such squabbling at my hearth!” he growled, pulling the boys, one by one, to stand in a row before him. “What is this about?”

  He regarded his eldest, received no answer. With his eyes, asked Oswin. Nothing. To Llacheu said. “I am waiting for explanation.”

  Fingers gripping his nose, trying to stem the blood, Eadric thought, Go on, tell him, Wealas boy. Tell tales.

  Llacheu felt no fear of Winta. The Saex man, for all his authority, had a kindly face and gentle nature towards his family. Aside, Llacheu had several times braved his own father’s fury. Nothing could outstrip that! He took a small while to consider an answer that would convey the truth but not land any of them in further trouble. He decided on: “We were about boy’s business, Sir. Nothing more.”

  Winta suppressed his spurt of amusement. “Boy’s business eh? Is it, then, so important you must spoil the peace of my Hall?”

  Again, Llacheu considered. “Sometimes,” he said, his head bending back to look direct into the tall man’s eyes, “matters are better settled straight way. Otherwise the thing festers and becomes out of hand.” He had heard his da say that. It had sounded good. And obviously worked, for Winta was turning away, saying, “Even so, Pendragon Boy, I would rather you did your settling beyond my Hall.”