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by Helen Hollick

  XXX

  “I was at the holy house of Yns Witrin three weeks past. I go there often to meet with the Sisters.”

  Arthur continued with his writing, ignoring Winifred who sat, her feet stretched towards one of the braziers in his private chamber having taken the room over as her own for this one night she would be staying. Gwenhwyfar had moodily gathered a few personal belongings and huffed out into the Hall, professing she would rather sleep among the hounds than with a sow. Even Arthur, who knew Winifred well, marvelled at the level of the woman’s audacity.

  He was sitting at his desk, hurriedly writing letters to be taken immediately by the messengers already saddling their horses. It was the advantage of his Artoriani, no weeks or months to assemble a war-hosting, no time wasted preparing war gear and supplies. They were ready, eager to march. Would leave at dawn for the north.

  “A young woman was there, heavy with child she was, dark-haired. Much agitated.”

  Arthur snorted. “So? What is that to me?”

  Standing, Winifred walked elegantly behind the desk, stood at Arthur’s shoulder leaning slightly forward to read what he was writing, and to whom. “Winta of the Humbrenses?” she said with genuine interest. “Will he fight with you?”

  Arthur did not answer, merely grunted a response.

  “Oh, of course.” Winifred smiled, more of a smirk, “Did you not agree a betrothal between his daughter and your Llacheu some months back? You are allied kin now, are you not?”

  A second grunt. Was there anything this damned woman did not know?

  She idled her fingers up his arm, rested them on the back of his neck, bending closer, her breath warm on his cheek. “I helped birth the child when it came. It was a male, lusty, well formed.” She moved her hand to stroke his hair at the nape of his neck. “The mother has called him Medraut.”

  Damn her to her Christian Hell! Arthur slammed the wooden tablet to Winta shut, angrily sealed it. His ally would have men marching north within a day of receiving the message, they would meet at Pengwern. He selected a third tablet, began a similar urgent message for Enniaun of Gwynedd. The first, to Ambrosius, was already on its way.

  “One of the Sisters,” Winifred continued in her wheedling tone,” said the woman, the young woman, was the one they call the Lady.”

  Arthur’s stylus hovered over the wax, his fingers going tighter around the wood.

  “I find that strange,” Winifred added, “seeing as the rumours announce she is dead.” She ran her hand down his back, remembering him standing naked before her earlier. “You must have heard those same rumours.”

  He had, but he said nothing, continued writing. The gossip had passed quickly, scandal travelled faster than a diving falcon! The Lady was no longer living by her lake, they said, and then, after a heavy rainstorm, the body of a dark-haired woman had been found, water-bloated, throat cut. The Lady, they added, with a sorry shake of their heads and signing the mark of protection, was no more. Only Arthur knew the fast-running tales to be wrong. The body was Brigid, not the Lady by the Lake.

  Winifred was reading what he had written. She pointed to a word. “That is spelt wrongly.”

  Irritably, Arthur corrected it.

  Going back to the stool, Winifred settled herself comfortably, arranging her skirts, her veil. “I perceived it strange that this woman, this young woman who might or might not have once called herself the Lady, should wear around her neck, dangling from a rope of plaited hair, a battered, old, gold ring.”

  Arthur looked up sharply. Winifred smiled. Ah, her guessing was right then! She held her hands to the flames, waited a moment before adding, “I would regret having to tell your wife that her son has yet another brother he may need to fight for the title Pendragon.”

  Coming slowly to his feet Arthur hissed, “You bitch!”

  “There again,” she said, admiring the spark of a ruby ring on her left hand, “I may decide to keep the information to myself.” She looked round, up at him as he stood over her. “For a price.”

  “Which is?”

  Her laugh had never been a pleasant sound to Arthur’s ears. “Oh, husband!” She looked at him. “You know my price.”

  Arthur stood glaring at her a moment considering all the ways he could kill her, here and now, but then he turned on his heel, stalked to his desk and selected a small piece of unused parchment. He wrote quickly, a few words only, affixed his seal and flung it across the room at her. Swarming to his feet, he took up the letter to Enniaun that he had not yet finished, and the stylus, and stormed towards the door. He flung it wide after snarling, “Go back on your word, bitch, and I will personally hang you and your brat.” Half way through the door he added, “Don’t bother to read it, the spelling is in order.”

  Alone, Winifred held the scroll a moment between her hands at her breast. She was shaking. Had it been so easy, after all these years, so damned easy? Reverently, she read what Arthur had put.

  I acknowledge Cerdic, the child of Winifred, as my second-born son. And then his name, simply written, Arthur, Pendragon.

  XXXI

  Hueil swept down through the bracken-covered hills above Caer Luel. The impoverished town, with no stomach for a fight, threw the gates wide and welcomed him inside, granting the respect due a warrior prince of Dalriada.

  In return, Hueil magnanimously forgave the town its misguided support to the Pendragon and made no mention that his Lady, Queen Morgause, had been held a prisoner there. That was the Pendragon’s doing, not the town’s - it was Arthur who would repay the insult. Hueil wooed and won them with glowing words and a brimming smile. The Caer needed protection? From whom – the Picti? Na, they had been Morgause’s people, they would not attack her friends. Dalriada? But were not Dalriada, Caer Luel and the proud people of the north all brothers? Hueil had come to free them, not fight them! And they cheered him, carried the young lord high on their shoulders. No one contradicted that Morgause was now nothing to the Picti, no one mentioned that Hueil’s true blood brothers had been forced to flee from his sword into the safety of Gwynedd. No one referred to the fact that Hueil had overthrown his own father. What did the north get from the Pendragon? Poverty and starving bellies, that’s what! Arthur took their gold and their grain to feed and pay his own, and laughed at them for their cowardice. No more, Hueil had cried, no more will we bow and scrape to a southerner who cares not a poxed whore for us!

  Hueil resumed his march south, the entire British north with him; the men who had backed Lot, who resented Arthur’s arrogance and the loss of face; Rheged, the fierce men of the high hills that swept through the wild country to either side of the Wall; his own men of Dalriada. An army swollen by young, eager men bound by the common factor of the north, their north. How easily they forget! A few years before they were fighting each other – those very same men who now walked side by side had vied for the supremacy of kingship. But the warrior kind were fickle. All they needed was a balanced spear, a sharpened sword and a leader to follow. The reason mattered little, as did who it was they fought. The blood-warming lure of a battle song paid small heed to detail.

  They followed the old Roman roads, marching at a steady pace through high, wooded country to Deva. The elders of a few farmsteadings tucked safe in sheltered valleys listened with little concern as they passed, and the young men took up their hunting spears and warm, wolf-skin cloaks and climbed the bleak hills to the high roadway to join them. It was a chance Hueil took, seeking a fight so close behind the winter snows, but the north was used to the snarl of bad weather, and he planned not to linger at the City of Legions. He wanted Morgause free, Arthur dead and the north as his own. He had the land and its people now, with the months of careful planning set into motion, he would soon have the other two.

  XXXII

  Under forced pace, Arthur reached Pengwern – so named for the alder grove between the three rivers – within five days. He made camp on the defensive ridge above the crags, overlooking the marsh and its clusters of
winter-shabby alder trees. One thing his damned first wife had not known, had not told him, was that Amlawdd was coming behind, along the march of the Hafren. Ahead, Hueil was settled on the high, sandy ground that lay behind the two great estuaries to either side of Deva. The Artoriani were caught between the two. The Pendragon could not turn to face Hueil knowing the whoreson from the south was at his back; but Hueil had the more men, could do a damn lot of damage were he to set them hunting off the leash. And where was Hueil headed? South to meet with Arthur? Deva to rescue Morgause? Or into Gwynedd? His father and brothers were there, a cowardly lot of god-mumbling nanny-goats admitted, but it was possible Hueil still counted them a threat. Help for the Artoriani was coming. Winta was on his way to the meeting place, but where was Gwynedd?

  Gwenhwyfar had been watching Arthur as he listened, grim-lipped, brows frowning, as his scouts made their report about Amlawdd, their sweat-grimed faces reflecting the sparks and flare of the mounded fire. The glow shed enough light into the darkness of this moonless night to see men’s faces clearly, read their expressions, their slipped thoughts. She needed no light to recognise her husband’s biting anger, felt it with him.

  Arthur had made no objection when she had calmly announced she was riding with him to this war. The marching would be hard, the fighting too, but Gwenhwyfar had never been a cosseted woman; she had marched with him before and would no doubt do so again in the future. The short time the Artoriani needed to prepare was enough for her also to make ready. Now that they had a Caer of their own, she could accompany Arthur, especially since Llacheu was that much older and she had no small children. For Gwenhwyfar it was as if she had never borne that last child. There was nothing, except an ache in the back of her mind, to remind her of a dead-born son. Arthur had not told her the truth and she had no cause to think different. And a war-trail allowed little time for thinking, which is why she had come and why Arthur had agreed.

  “I’ll ride into Gwynedd, see what delays my brothers’ coming.” She smiled, quite calm, as the men seated around Arthur’s fire turned to look at her. One or two protested, others murmured agreement. “I can stir the fire in their winter-fat bellies.” It was something practical she could do that would leave the men free for the fighting that would soon come. Gwynedd should already have been with Arthur, should have been waiting. His messengers used only the best horses. Gwynedd should already have sewn these Hafren marches so tight that Amlawdd would be caught in the rear with nowhere to go, save home. But no one had seen sign nor word of Gwynedd.

  As she got to her feet, Arthur caught hold of her hand, supporting her, half risen, her face level with his. “Leave Llacheu with me?” He asked it as a question, unsure whether he was making the right choice, but she smiled, nodded. “I ride fast, husband, and take only a small escort. For all the dangers, he will be safer with you.”

  She was about to turn away from the heat and light of the fire but he caught her tighter, twisting himself around to add, “Take Ider and…” He glanced at his officers seated circular around the fire. Good men, all of them trustworthy and capable in a fight: Geraint, and beside him, wearing his beloved wolf-skin, old Mabon, who had served under Uthr. Gwenwynwyn, Peredur and those with affectionate names, ‘Iron-Fist’ and ‘Boar’s Beard’, they were all good men. Arthur’s attention fell on Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s cousin. They had once quarrelled, Meriaun and his uncle, Enniaun of Gwynedd, and the anger between them had never healed. Arthur had to make a decision, the right decision, who to send with Gwenhwyfar across the marshes of these three rivers and up into Gwynedd, because word, brought quietly in the night to Arthur’s ears, said that Gwynedd was too tied with her own problems to enter this war. He might need Meriaun if he had to meet Amlawdd or Hueil within the next few days, but then, so might his Cymraes. “Go with her, Meriaun, you also know the ways through the mountains.”

  Meriaun had anticipated the order, was straight to his feet, saluting and turning on his heel to go and select men and horses, Gwenhwyfar leaving with him to say farewell to Llacheu, to fetch her warmest cloak.

  Arthur waited by the makeshift gateway, a sturdy tree, cut and hefted across the gap in the crumbling old earthworks that had once served as his stronghold’s defences. He stepped out from the shadows as they rode up, his wife, Meriaun and the guard of thirty well-armed, best-trained men, put his hand to her horse’s neck as she halted, the animal side-stepping, tossing its head at the exciting prospect of a night ride.

  “Take care,” he said simply to her. “Take care.”

  Gwenhwyfar leaned down from her horse and kissed him, once, lightly, as so many times he had kissed her before riding out. “I have Meriaun and Ider to protect me, and I go into the mountains where I was born.” She touched his unshaven face. “You also take care.” And she was gone, heeling her horse into a trot as the men hauled the trunk from across the gap; gone where the black space of night hovered beyond the slope that dropped down with alarming steepness into the dark, bog-bound levels of marsh and deep-shadowed alder. Arthur saw only the swish of her horse’s tail and her hand raised in parting.

  At dawn, Hueil left his secure ridge and swung down towards Deva, and Morgause. And Amlawdd, with his following of baggage carts and army whores, broke their night camp and marched for Viroconium.

  XXXIII

  Gwenhwyfar and the men rode as far as was practical in the darkness, making slow passage through the marshes and across the river. They stopped to rest and graze the horses and to snatch a few brief hours of sleep before entering the heavily wooded valley that would take them up into Gwynedd.

  The winter snows had come and turned to rain, although the heights of Moel Siabod and Yr Wyddfa remained decked in white blankets. Gwenhwyfar had known winters when even the tough hill sheep had perished beneath snows that lay impenetrable for weeks. This had been a wet, cold winter, although there was even now time for the snows to come again. It was the first week into March, but there were not many early flowers or green buds on the trees. Spring would be late this year.

  They were watched as they entered the valley. There was nothing seen or heard, only a feeling of eyes watching their backs and the tell-tale sign of their horses’ ears twitching back and forth, listening. And then, as the sun rose, eight mounted men appeared from out of the dawn mist, Gwynedd men, weapons drawn but not raised, politely offering escort.

  They were taken along the valley to Enniaun, who waited for them beneath the ancient stronghold called the Place of Ravens, a hill fort of old magic, rich in stories, wraithed in superstition. Gwenhwyfar’s father, the great Lion Lord Cunedda, had been laid to rest up there. Enniaun’s horses were still saddled, cooling down, traces of wet mud and sweat clinging to their coats. His boots, too, were muddy and he looked tired, drawn and dishevelled. The mist had settled lower, drifting down the mountains, the grey breath masking the quiet hills and wooded slopes making them quieter still. Gwenhwyfar’s sense of distinct unease sprang into full alarm. She jumped from her mare, ran to her eldest brother crying, “What is wrong?”

  Enniaun retained his tired smile of greeting, hugged his sister to him, indicated the fire his men had set. Hares were roasting, and a brace of duck. “Sit near the fire, sister, food will be ready soon.” He took her elbow, guided her towards the warmth while calling for drink to be brought. Rebellious, Gwenhwyfar shook him off, stamped her foot. A childish action, but one that seemed fitting. “I don’t want warmth or food or drink. I want to know why you are not riding to aid my husband, and what is happening here in Gwynedd!”

  Enniaun persisted, tried again to seat her before the fire; his sister’s sudden-flared tempers had not dampened with the years, then. With a sigh and gesture of submission, he seated himself, accepted wine. “It is some while since I last had chance to fill my belly, I intend to eat even if you do not.” He began on a portion of hare, added with exasperation, “For God’s sake sit down, woman – aye and you, nephew.” Enniaun nodded at Meriaun, who stood near the horses wearing a frosted
frown. “Let me eat and then we can talk.”

  Meriaun, not as easily riled as Gwenhwyfar, sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire, regarding his uncle through critical eyes. He had noticed some of the things Gwenhwyfar had not. The men were dropping with fatigue, several with bandages covering wounds. The horses went ungroomed, also wounded, some of them. He helped himself to meat, offered some to Gwenhwyfar, who reluctantly flounced to the grass beside him.

  Enniaun took only one mouthful then launched into explanation. “We cannot help Arthur. Powys is grumbling along our borders again and the sea-wolves are also at our throats. Môn, it seems, is no longer enough for them. Ships are lying off our coast as far down as Ceredigion.” Enniaun paused as riders approached, coming at a hard canter, their horses slithering to a halt. Two men leapt from the saddles, strode with quick, long paces towards the fire, wasted no time with formality or greeting. Enniaun finished what he had been saying. “There have been a few skirmishes, nothing serious, but… ”

  Abloyc, their brother, stripping his gloves from his hands completed the sentence. “But if we pull our men out to aid the Pendragon, Powys and the sea-wolves will be like bees swarming to spilt honey.” Briefly, he and the other man, Dogmail, embraced their sister before flopping down before the fire, expressions as grim as Enniaun’s.

  Caught between Gwynedd’s need and that of her husband, Gwenhwyfar pleaded, “Help us now, and when Hueil is finished Arthur will bring the Artoriani to flush every sea-pirate from Gwynedd and Ceredigion. Powys will not dare go against the Pendragon! Arthur will help you, as soon as he can.”

  Enniaun was shaking his head, sadly, slowly. Dogmail shifted himself to a more comfortable position and Abloyc’s fingers were fiddling with his dagger. None was willing to answer the truth. Someone had to, had to spit it out. Surprisingly, that someone was Meriaun, who considered himself no longer of Gwynedd but of the Artoriani.