The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Etern cocked his head to listen at a side door. He pushed it open and crept through, his sister close as a shadow behind him. The vast building was bursting with excited people. Merchants, Eldermen, a handful of headmen who had ridden hard when the two ships were first sighted.

  A bear-pawed hand thumped down on Gwenhwyfar’s shoulder and spun her around. She looked up, startled, met with an elder brother’s heavy frown. With a none too gentle shake Enniaun growled, “I wondered how long before you two bobbed up.” He eyed Gwenhwyfar’s appearance. “You been fighting a battle?” He poked a finger at a particularly large stain on her tunic. “Would it not be polite for our father’s two youngest to have washed and changed before entering his Hall?” He twirled Gwenhwyfar round, studying an even larger grass stain on the seat of her bracae. “God’s truth! The pair of you are dirtier than midden slaves.”

  Brushing ineffectually at the offending mark on her chest, Gwenhwyfar smiled innocently. “We were in a hurry. No one will notice us if we stay at the back.”

  “I will notice – and have no doubt Da will.”

  Gwenhwyfar exchanged a wry glance with Etern. Enniaun was right, of course. Dismally they slouched out again and stood dejected for a moment, heads and shoulders slumped. “We could creep in through the servants’ door from the kitchens,” Gwenhwyfar suggested.

  Etern shrugged. “Da would still see us – or worse, Branwen. Best do as Enniaun says. Just wash the bits that show, put on a clean tunic and comb your hair. Meet you back here.” He said the last quickly, off and running towards the boys’ place before he had finished speaking.

  Gwenhwyfar envied him those quarters. No twittering chatter from an array of cousins for him. Nor, she reflected as she trotted into the girls’ chamber, a mess of discarded garments strewn over floor and cot.

  Grumbling to herself she flung someone’s crumpled tunic from her bed and kicked her own dusty boots beneath. Stuffing her tunic into the chest of soiled garments destined for the laundry slaves, she washed from a pitcher of cold water and tugged a comb through her tangled hair, cursing her misfortune at being born a girl.

  After nine brothers she was the only daughter. In a sheltered recess of her heart, Gwenhwyfar sometimes wondered whether her mother might have survived the birth of the last delivered had she borne a tenth son. Making a face in the hand-held bronze mirror, she studied herself. A squarish chin, nose a little too long, mouth rather too wide, lips too thin. She did not consider herself pretty, did not particularly care whether she was or not. Gwenhwyfar thought and behaved more like a boy than a girl; learning to run, fight and ride as was the old way for British-born women. The old way, before the Romans came with their tidy ideas. She could handle a weapon, sword or spear, as competently as Etern; could plan an ambush with unrivalled cunning – much to the annoyance of family and servants who often fell foul of her mischief.

  She stuck her tongue out at her slightly distorted image in the polished metal, put the mirror down and again attacked her hair with the comb. Her personal bane, this: Cunedda refused to allow her to wear her hair short. He suffered her in boys’ clothing – discreetly admired her courage and determination, but wailed, “Leave something to remind us occasionally that you will be woman-grown one day.”

  Hastily she rebraided its thick mass, her fingers flying in and out, then struggled into a fresh tunic. Glancing at her bed, which she shared with Ceridwen, Cunedda’s youngest niece, she grinned. All was tidy. The others would be in for a scolding from Branwen when she saw the state of the place. Gwenhwyfar laughed wickedly and skittered back to Etern, leaping up a short flight of wooden steps to where he waited.

  “What took you so long?”

  “This damn mane of mine, it takes ages to braid; one day I’m going to defy Da and hack it off.”

  Eyes widening, Etern stared in horror. “You would not dare!”

  Restraining a smile, Gwenhwyfar retorted, “Would I not?” For a wild heartbeat Etern believed her.

  A second time Enniaun appraised them, nodded his satisfaction. “You will pass.” Then, “Do you not have female garments, Gwenhwyfar? Something more suitable than boys’ bracae for an occasion such as this, hm?”

  Her eyes grew round with indignation. Those were words more suited to the dragon Branwen, not a beloved elder brother. “I wear a gown on the Lord’s day. Is that not enough?” she answered.

  Etern giggled. “Only because our Holy Father told Da one Sabbath you looked more like a street slave. Da was livid, I recall.”

  Gwenhwyfar grinned back at him. She had reluctantly agreed to wear more suitable clothing in the chapel, not to pacify Branwen who grumbled the girl ought always dress as befitted her sex, nor for the priest, but because her Da had been embarrassed in public by a man he regarded as a pompous ass.

  “You will find space over there. Go quietly, mind.” Enniaun smiled to himself as the children wormed their way through to where he had indicated. Etern on the threshold of manhood, a fine boy, and Gwenhwyfar, so like her mother. The same vivacious face, sparkling eyes and trilling laugh. The same iron will.

  Enniaun was close past Etern’s age when Gwenhwyfar was given life and their mother’s taken. To the end of his days he would never forget seeing his Da crumpled with tear-stained face, rocking a pitifully crying baby, nor his choking words. “Aye, little one, I miss your Mam too.” He turned his attention away from his sister, squatting hunkered on her heels, chin cupped in hand, eyes intent upon Uthr – a man so often heard of, yet barely remembered by the elder brothers; never seen by the younger ones.

  None in this Hall failed to share her excitement. Cunedda’s people loved Uthr, and what he stood for: freedom, revenge. They were a proud people, with long, long memories. Under Uthr and Cunedda they had once fought Vortigern and lost. Defeated and shamed Cunedda had surrendered to the King, who claimed the north in forfeit. Giving instead, in gracious compassion, a shabby, forgotten corner of Britain, racked by poverty and plague and violated by sea pirates. Vortigern intended the giving as an insult. Cunedda had no choice but to accept, and with a heavy heart and bitter pain had come with his loyal people to this struggling, dismal corner of valleys and mountains. Finding a dejected settlement loosely propped beside the remains of a Roman fortress, he turned that heaviness to determination, pain into optimism. He created pride and wealth in place of squalor and shame, hope in place of resignation. The passing years saw the raiders set to flight, the ruins rebuilt and hearts raised as high as the mountains of Eryri. Demand, encourage, bully and praise; the Lion gave might and wisdom, received back from his new land of Gwynedd loyalty and profound respect. Cunedda won enough of both to choose his own friends – and to blow dust in the face of those who objected. But none forgot Uthr, the rightful king; and none forgot Vortigern, sitting safe within his guarded estates and comfortable strongholds in the wealthy south and west.

  Cunedda’s people – once the proud Votadini, now the even prouder people of Gwynedd – cherished their memories. Of a war begun and lost; of Vortigern hiring the Saxons to fight against them, and the resulting blood and death and sorrow. Memories that whistled on a summer dawn, of sons slaughtered and women taken; or on a frosted winter’s night, of hearth fires grown cold and dwelling places lying derelict. Dun Pelidr, the ancient fortress rising like a whale hump from a sea of flat land, fallen empty and dark; Cunedda’s fortress where he had governed, as had his father, and his father before him. Dun Pelidr, where rotted the butchered bones of Cunedda’s eldest son.

  Ah, in Gwynedd Vortigern’s cruelties were well remembered. It had taken time to re-forge strength, to rebuild all that had been lost, but they had it all now, all and more. By moving Cunedda to Gwynedd, Vortigern had intended him to sink into oblivion, but the King had judged wrong, and now Uthr was back from exile.

  Accompanied by his three sons an Elderman came before Uthr, bowed and exchanged a brief word before finding seating. The Hall was filling. Soon there would be standing room only; then the porch would crow
d with men, and latecomers would need to wait outside, the speeches relayed by those who could hear. Glancing round, Gwenhwyfar recognised many of those already seated or waiting to greet the Pendragon and Cunedda; many, she did not know. That one, from the emblem on his shoulder, must be from north Dyfed, and the one seated beside him. Several to the left had come from across the Straits, from the sea wolf plagued Isle of Môn. Word must have flown fast and well guarded ahead of Uthr’s coming, for so many notables to be so quickly gathered in this chieftain’s hall.

  Her attention wandering, Gwenhwyfar gazed fondly about her: at the smoke blackened beams arching under the reed-thatch roof, carrying the carved heads and faces of protective and watchful spirits; at the fresh-painted white daub walls, hung with bright tapestries and splendid skins, lined with ranks of spears, swords and shields. Her brothers sat clustered in a group, chattering among themselves, their faces eager and animated. Ceredig, kind-natured and easy to talk to, the next born after Enniaun. He was stockier than the others and not so tall, though like many of them he carried the same bush of red hair as their Da. With a wife and three young daughters he was awaiting an opportunity to claim his own land. Seated at the fore of the group were the twins Rumaun and Dunaut, as like as two spears made from the same shaft, both tall and exceptionally handsome, both with wives and young children. Rumaun was bending forward, telling a no doubt lewd tale to Meriaun, only born child of dead Typiaunan. Next to him, Abloyc, legs spread, hands behind his head, thrust himself back laughing. By the turn of summer Abloyc was to wed a chieftain’s lass from Dyfed, a blue-eyed, vivacious girl. Gwenhwyfar had met her several times and liked her. And then sleek Dogmail, smiling at a passing serving lass. His bed companion? You never knew with Dogmail exactly who his latest love would be. He loved them all, he said, all women. Osmail was not there. Gwenhwyfar scanned the crowded Hall. Ah, there he was, seated beside an Elderman from the small coastal stronghold of Conwy. Engrossed in serious conversation, judging by the concentrated frown on his face. She turned her attention back to Uthr. A bull-muscled man, richly dressed in a combination of Roman and Brythonic fighting gear, as were most of the fighting men. But Uthr eclipsed all others as the sun would outshine an evening star.

  Gwenhwyfar shivered, excitement tingling along her spine. Sa, tales are not true? As she glanced across the Hall indignation flushed across her cheeks, glowered in her eyes. What insolence! Among the Pendragon’s personal guard sat a boy hunkered on his heels, openly staring at her with a lopsided grin. Gwenhwyfar turned to Etern, intending to exclaim at the impertinence, but her mouth dropped open as she saw her brother nod and grin back at the boy. Of all the…! She decided to ignore the both of them.

  Uthr’s purple cloak, spun of the finest wool, was fastened at his left shoulder with a brooch the size of a man’s clenched fist. Around his throat he wore a torque of twisted gold shaped like a dragon – a great serpent beast with ruby eyes and gaping jaws, its gold scales winking in the dancing light of the torches. A royal torque, a king’s insignia – and Uthr wore it like a king determined on absolute power.

  All the while, though she directed her mind to the Pendragon, Gwenhwyfar could feel eyes staring at her. Eyes belonging to a boy with hair cut ridiculously short in the Roman style, and a nose too long and straight for a face with an etched smile that could only be described as shameless. Indignant, Gwenhwyfar flicked a braid behind her shoulder and lifted her chin higher.

  Cunedda was coming to his feet, striding forward a step and holding his arms high to silence the rumble of talk.

  Gwenhwyfar shuffled her body around so as to turn her back on the boy.

  “Lord Uthr!” Cunedda’s voice boomed up to the roof, shuddering the dust from settled corners to swirl a while among the hearth-fire smoke curling around the cobwebbed rafters. “First I speak words of welcome, as custom and honour demands. I say to you, for myself and my people,” he gestured with spread hands at the intent assembly, “welcome to Gwynedd and to my Hall. Welcome, as my foster brother, unseen for over many years and truly missed.” He grinned at Uthr, then said in a lower tone, “Despite your tendency to get us both into serious trouble!”

  Laughter rippled, and a few handclaps joined enthusiastically by Uthr himself. Stories of these two men’s youthful exploits were popular hearth tales, told for the most part with good humour and much laughter. For some, though, they were useful to be spread as malicious gossip. Cunedda might be well respected, but Uthr had left many enemies along his trail.

  The Lord of Gwynedd let quiet settle before stepping up to the man he had waited so long to receive. He clasped Uthr’s arm in recognition of friendship; Uthr stood, returning the gesture. Before the cheering crowd, the two embraced, holding each other close, not heeding their ready tears.

  Stepping back, reluctant to relinquish the embrace of friendship Cunedda spoke directly to Uthr, but pitched his trembling voice so all might hear. “And welcome, double welcome, as rightful King of all Britain.”

  As one the assembly leapt to its feet, roaring agreement, hands waving or striking the air, heads back, mouths wide, feet stamping. Gwenhwyfar stamped and yelled with them. Through each season of her twelve years of life her brothers and father had spoken with admiration for this man, Uthr Pendragon. Barely a moon waned without someone bringing up the question of when he would raise an army and come against the tyrant Vortigern. And now it was happening. Uthr was actually here in her Da’s Hall! Here he stood, as large as a bear, as imposing as a dragon, ready to renew his war on Vortigern.

  The Pendragon held his arms high, humbly acknowledging the acclaim. Deep, dark eyes, set in the earth-brown face of an outdoor man, gazed solemnly over those standing before him cheering and shouting.

  Gwenhwyfar wondered if Uthr had noticed herself and Etern, knew them to be Cunedda’s youngest born. As the thought came, the Pendragon’s piercing gaze fell upon her. She flushed pink, but summoned enough courage to return his scrutiny.

  Unexpectedly, she met something other than stern power. Kindness shone there, and laughter. She smiled a half-shy girl’s greeting. Uthr’s mouth twitched in response and Gwenhwyfar found it impossible to control the laugh that burst from her as he winked.

  The boy must have seen it too, for when Gwenhwyfar turned her head she caught him grinning straight at her. With immense difficulty, she repressed the childish urge to stick her tongue out at the mongrel whelp.

  III

  Pouring wine for guests and Gwynedd’s warriors was one of the few women’s tasks Gwenhwyfar quite enjoyed. To make her way round benches that groaned under the weight of so many, to slide nimbly between the jostling arms of animated revellers without spilling a drop of her Da’s most precious wine, carried a pleasing benefit. You could take a while to fill a tankard or goblet, and listen to interesting talk. Men with the drink in them seemed to forget the wine-bearer had ears. Gwenhwyfar learnt much of the comings and goings beyond Caer Arfon by that innocent pouring of wine.

  Four suns had set since Uthr’s arrival, followed by three heat-hazed days busy from dawn’s first light to the fall of dusk – aye, and beyond, into damp scented, sound-heightened darkness, that carried the clang, clang of the swordsmith’s hammer as far as the sleeping hills. By day, horses were brought up from the pasture for the fitting and checking of harness and hooves. Men were drilled, the echoing tramp, tramp of their feet mingling with their shouted war cries. Other men busy with leather and metalwork; a constant bustle of making and mending, and among it all the cheery leave-taking of messengers, swift-bound for allied lords of Dyfed and Gwent. And all the time there came the steady arrival of Cunedda’s warriors called by the great boom and boom of the war horns sounding along the wind from ridge to ridge that first sunset, summoning shepherds, mountain or valley dwellers. Fathers and sons, headmen with their shield-bearers, the fighting men of Gwynedd, coming eager to fulfil their service of the war spear.

  The hill from the Caer, rising in an incline beyond the Stone Ground to where the tu
mbled stones and timber of the old Roman fortress of Segontium had once stood, was clustered with tents and campfires. Uthr’s men alongside Gwynedd’s, and those from beyond the Dovey river. Men who welcomed Cunedda’s strong hand against the sea wolves, proud to offer their spears alongside his own. Aiee! This would be a hosting to stir a tale-teller’s harp for many a winter’s night to come.

  The noise of excited talk and merry laughter swirled and buffeted against the high rafters, mingling with the dark waft of hearth smoke. Carrying a new-filled jug on her hip, Gwenhwyfar made her way along the row of benches to where her brothers sat with her father and Lord Uthr. She poured for the Pendragon, listening to the conversation of the moment – talk of Vortigern’s two grown sons by his first wife, a woman long since cold in her grave.

  She moved with casual slowness to her father, shifting the weight of the heavy jug and pouring carefully. So-o, Vortimer and Catigern were becoming more outspoken against the second-taken wife? Gwenhwyfar knew much of her. Rowena, daughter to the Saxon warlord Hengest. The marriage had caused outrage some ten and eight years past, culminating in that brief flurried war of Cunedda’s unsuccessful rebellion and Uthr’s simultaneous attempt to take the throne. Cunedda had lost his eldest son and his northern stronghold, and Uthr too, had lost his vast holding of land and had fled into exile. Many good men had died through Vortigern’s wanting of that Saex bitch. How he had paraded his victory, rubbing the sting of salt into the raw wound and neatly sidestepping remaining criticism by declaring his marriage a treaty of alliance.

  “He says,” said Cunedda, talking of Vortigern to Uthr, “he still regards Rowena as a hostage for peace.”

  Uthr barked a shout of laughter. “And treats her as such? My arse he does! That lecherous toad married her because he was hard for her. Mind, Hengest is a crafty bastard: You want to bed my daughter? Certainly, Vortigern, but not without a bride price of a claim to British land!”