The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Uthr emptied his goblet in one long draught. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he crooked a finger at Gwenhwyfar, who was serving her eldest brother, and held out the empty vessel for her to refill. To Cunedda, he added, “That Saex pirate knew what he was about when he paraded a ten and six year old beauty before a man known for his whoring. I hear she’s pregnant again?”

  Gwenhwyfar filled one brother’s goblet, moved to another. That also was common knowledge. The Queen’s birthing would be within the month, the sixth born, and all who despised the King and his bitch hoped for it to be the fifth to die. One child only had survived, a daughter who had the fair skin and sharp temper of her mother.

  From a nearby corner someone called her, holding his goblet high. There was still wine in her jug but she walked deliberately past and made her way towards the women’s side, where she filled a goblet for herself and sat. She flicked a glance at the one who had hailed her, Etern, her youngest brother, seated cross-legged on the floor among the boys of the Caer. Let someone else serve him, him and that boy. For these three days she had seen nought of Etern so taken with the insolent whelp was he. Well, she, Gwenhwyfar, would have no tangle with him!

  Spirits soared and voices grew loud with the laughter of full bellies and good wine. Again it was Gwenhwyfar’s turn to take round the flagons, and again she found herself pouring for the Pendragon.

  He nodded his thanks, grinned broadly at her and said to Cunedda, “Your daughter will one day make a fine match for some aspiring princeling. Have you plans for betrothal?”

  Feeling her face grow pink, Gwenhwyfar held her jug steady as she poured. Her Da, though, had been distracted by some shout of laughter along the table and so no answer came. It was not her place, a woman and a child at that, to pass comment but Gwenhwyfar was never one for bowing to convention.

  “My Lord, I have no intention of being married off to some unlanded, unblooded upstart who wishes to use me for his own ambition.”

  Attention caught, Cunedda flashed his daughter a frown of disapproval, but Uthr sat back in his chair and roared amusement.

  He thumped the Lion on the shoulder and declared, “Your lass, my friend, and no mistake. She has your wit – temper too no doubt.” He chuckled again, reached out to hold Gwenhwyfar’s chin in his cupped hand and scanned her face. “Aye, but I can see her mother’s beauty shadowed beneath this childhood awkwardness.” He released her, said with a decisive nod, “You’d do well for a king’s wife, girl. I full agree – aim high!” He reached his arm behind her, playfully patted her backside with his palm.

  “I will wed none but the highest, my Lord.”

  “Queen, eh?” Uthr chuckled. “Even you, at your age, could do a better job than the present one!” More laughter, echoed by others at table and those within hearing.

  Cunedda nodded quick agreement and made attempt to turn the conversation, but Uthr, his humorous eyes lingering on Gwenhwyfar, pursued the thing. “I give you a promise, lass.” He raised his wine and said in a louder voice, “When I have parted Vortigern’s head from his shoulders I shall bear you in mind should I need a new wife as queen!”

  To Gwenhwyfar’s extreme annoyance Etern and the boy joined with the answering shout of hilarity. Passing their corner, the boys called for her to leave the wine. Saying nothing she thumped the jug on the table, stepping deliberately on what she thought was her brother’s toe. No matter that it was the boy who yelped.

  He looked up at her, brown eyes meeting her green. Taking hold of her arm with his fingers he said, with no hiding of the laughter in his voice, “I am grown quite tall and have yet more growing before I finish. Would I be high enough for you?” His laughter broke with a splutter as he collapsed against Etern, whose arms came about the boy’s shoulders, their amusement exploding into joint hilarity.

  Gwenhwyfar glared distastefully at the both of them.

  “You behave like half-witted mooncalves!” Earning herself more laughter, she turned away abruptly. The boy, Arthur, had entered Gwenhwyfar’s life, and she hated him.

  IV

  Lady Morgause was in a boiling temper. The meat, she considered, had been raw on one side, blackened on the other, and the wine sour. The Hall was draughty and full of choking hearth and torch smoke; loud with men’s drunken laughter and the cloying stench of male sweat. She had a headache as thick as beeswax. And that girl had dared flaunt herself before the Pendragon. His gaze had roamed to her all evening, followed her as she left to seek her bedchamber with the rest of that gaggle of girls. Ah, and Morgause knew only too well Uthr’s gleam of interest, that curving smile of his.

  The iron-rimmed heels of her boots click-clicked on the path in step with her anger, her lips pressed tight, body rigid, as she stormed along the rough-laid path. She hissed an embellished oath as her cloak snagged on a nail protruding from a leaning fence, jerked the material free with impatient fingers, cursing again at the sound of ripping. There was little light out here. A flaring torch set here and there, a shaft of pale, flickering yellow from the open doorway of some hovel of a dwelling place. There was no moon, the faint silver of midnight starlight not quite enough to illuminate the way to the latrines. Not that light was needed; the stink provided guidance enough.

  She entered the dim-lit, square-built chamber, her nose wrinkling as the smell of human waste assailed her nostrils. Seating herself at the nearest accommodation she emptied her bladder quickly, with held breath, and would have run for the fresh air had dignity ever permitted Morgause to run.

  She was used to the luxury of a Roman villa: light, airy rooms, tiled flooring and paved courtyards. Hot water in the bathhouse – not the tepid, brownish slush that filled Cunedda’s excuse for a bathing pool – and latrines cleaned twice daily. She snorted derisively. Small comfort that there was a bathhouse and latrines in this squalid apology for a nobleman’s residence. By the name of the Goddess, it was hard to believe civilisation had ever touched this backward place.

  As she stepped outside, her sight was momentarily lost in the darkness. She walked forward impatiently and collided with someone running for the door. A flurry of arms, a swirl of hair and a gasped apology. Then the dim rush lighting from within the latrines flared briefly as the door opened and closed. Silence. Morgause stood, her breath not yet recovered from the foul stench. That wretched girl again! For a moment she almost made to follow the child with the intention of delivering a severe reprimand. Her hand went to push the door, but she had no wish to re-enter the place without desperate need, and even less of a wish to stand hovering here, outside.

  Turning back along the path, she swung right to skirt the Hall and strode towards the chamber allotted Uthr, her thoughts dwelling on Cunedda’s daughter. Gwenhwyfar. A child on the edge of womanhood, a maiden. A pretty enough thing, though her legs and arms were too long, her body not yet full-rounded but with enough promise to excite a man who took an interest in young girls. Morgause caught the swirl of her cloak as a freshening sea wind flapped at its length, and cast the folds across her shoulder. Uthr had made that remark in jest about marriage with the girl, but with Uthr who knew which was jest and which seed to take root? Morgause had long since learnt not to trust Uthr’s seemingly idle remarks.

  There was a light in his chamber, spreading in a narrow, spilt pool through the open door. Morgause hesitated. Was her lord already come from the Hall? Not yet, surely? A moment since he was still drinking deep with Cunedda, though many were seeking their sleeping furs or already lay snoring where the drink left them. With her mind half diverted by the irritating reflection of Gwenhwyfar, and that disturbing look of lust in Uthr’s eye, Morgause entered the chamber.

  There was a clatter, a gasp of indrawn breath. The boy Arthur was crouched beside a clothing chest set at the foot of the bed, his hand hovering inside, fingers clasped around a small scroll of parchment. Immediately Morgause was across the room, reaching out, roughly grabbing at him.

  “What do you do here? How dare you pry into my Lor
d Uthr’s things!” She twisted Arthur’s arm behind his back, brought him to his feet and shook him as a dog would shake a caught rat.

  Fear and panic had ripped across Arthur’s face at her unexpected entrance, his heartbeat leaping, breath catching. All was masked now, controlled, sealed tight behind a shield wall of defiance. He would not let this witch see his fear of her. She would like it if he showed how scared he was of her slapping hand and evil temper.

  “I am not prying!” he defended, attempting to squirm away, to free his arm. “Lord Uthr bade me fetch something.”

  “You lie!” Morgause snatched at the parchment. He jerked aside, but not quickly enough. She had it, a sneer of triumph in her pinched nostrils and slit eyes. She moved from him a pace, but did not let go his arm, her grip tightening, claw-like nails biting into the flesh beneath his woollen tunic. Arthur would have cried out but he knew to hide that also. Bite hard on your lip, or dig your own nails into the palm to divert the pain she inflicted, keep it hidden.

  She was attempting to unroll the thing one handed, not succeeding. Impatient, she hissed, “What is in here?”

  Truthfully, “I know not. Lord Uthr bade me fetch it.” To add conviction, “It is for Lord Cunedda to see.”

  Morgause waved the scroll before his nose, her face coming close to his, both hands now on his arms, shaking, shaking. “You lie. You were stealing it. For some purpose of your own, you were thieving from Uthr.”

  The defiance came easier now. He was not lying – no need to pretend, to think fast or fabricate untruths. “Why would I do that? Why should I steal from the man I love?” A mistake. Arthur saw it as he spoke, realised her anger had turned ugly.

  Morgause’s eyes narrowed. Her hand drew back, the gemstones in her many rings flashing in the subdued light, the gold and amber and jet bracelets tinkling and jangling at her wrist. Then the palm swept forward. Two stinging blows fell sharply across Arthur’s cheek, leaving streaks of white that began to redden, would show the blue-black of bruising by morning. There would have come a third.

  “Why indeed?” a man’s voice drawled. “What use, woman, would a letter from my saintly youngest brother, Emrys, have for this boy?” Uthr stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his great bulk blotting out the darkness beyond, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

  She had not heard him come up behind her. Morgause spun to face him, not letting the boy go. “I caught him going through your things. It is not the first time he has stolen or lied.”

  Uthr pushed himself from his leaning position, strolled a little unsteadily into the chamber and towards a wine flagon, where he poured for himself. “You too have stolen, my lovely, aye, and lied on occasion.” He raised his goblet in mock salute, said with a light chuckle and an amused smile, “Did you not steal me from my wife? And do you not, even after all these years, still lie to her about it?” Then, with the severity of command, “Let the boy go. He tells the truth.”

  Reluctant, lips pouting, Morgause released her hold. Uthr jerked his head at Arthur. “Take the parchment to Cunedda – you will find him in his own chamber – then return here.” He winked, almost as a conspirator would, “I may have further need of your legs, lad.”

  There was triumph in Arthur’s bold, eye-to-eye look as with a flourish, he took the scroll from Morgause’s hand. He bowed his head at Uthr and left, his step jaunty. Beyond the door, he leapt into the air, striking his fist above his head, into the darkness. Sweet pleasure to have won over her. Sweet, rare-tasted pleasure. He cared little whether she heard his accompanying war yell of triumph.

  Uthr said nothing more. He set his baldric and sword aside, unclasped his cloak, peeled off his leather tunic, belched and took a further draught of wine.

  Morgause, too, said nothing. She stood, fists clenched, willing Uthr to say something more, something she could answer. There was much she would say. Of that girl, Gwenhwyfar – what was she to Uthr, had he intentions there? Of the brat Arthur – whose son was he? Why had he been brought here? When was Uthr to set his wife aside and take Morgause in her stead. She waited, willing an argument. Still Uthr said nothing.

  He sat on the bed, busied himself with plumping the pillows, fiddling with the furs, inspecting the clean linen. He raised one eyebrow in her direction. The glow from the few beeswax candles fell soft, flattering on her skin, ringing her sun yellow hair like a golden coronet. Her breasts beneath the expensive silk of her robe, rose and fell with the quick panting of her angered breath. Holding his goblet he moved slowly, almost casually, and encircled her body with his arm. He kissed her, not gently, but with a roughness that came from the certain knowledge of possession.

  “You ought not frown, my beauty, you will get wrinkles around your eyes.” He ran his thumb under her chin, down her neck, his fingers slipped briefly beneath her bodice. Then he placed a swift kiss on her lips and swung away, back to stretch out on the bed, his goblet still in his hand.

  “I’m tired, Morgause. Go to your own bed this night.” He waved his free hand in the vague direction of the door and closed his eyes.

  Morgause took three deep breaths. Very calm, but with icy hatred, she said, “So, I am to be dismissed like a common whore who is no longer needed?”

  Uthr laughed. “Common, my lovely? Na, you were never common.” Morgause did not miss the fact that he had not denied the word ‘whore’, and had used the past tense.

  She stalked to the door, sweeping her cloak around her high and wide, knocking the flagon of wine from the table sending it spinning and clattering to the floor. “I hope your new maiden gives you a dose of the cock-pox!” she flung at him, and banged out through the door.

  Uthr yawned. It had been a long day of greeting old friends and new, of good food and wine. He closed his eyes, sighed with tiredness – opened them again with a start. What new maid? He lifted himself on his elbow, peering curiously at the closed door in half a mind to call Morgause back. Na, leave it. He settled himself more comfortable, lying atop the furs, booted feet stretched the length of the bed. Ah, Morgause was so easy to bait into a flurry. Always had been jealous, that one, not like her eldest sister, his wife. Ygrainne was the placid one. He yawned again, felt the warm glow of approaching, welcomed sleep. How different sisters could be! The one meek, shut away for hours praying to her God, world weary with the shouldered burden of others’ problems and troubles – and Morgause, a blaze of temper that crashed through all reasonable sense, with no thought beyond herself. The one a wife who would not be a wife; the other who could never fill her place. Happen he ought to seek a third party, another female who would be somewhere a’tween the two minds. His drowsing thoughts drifted to think of Cunedda’s daughter. Her pretty face, her tilted, defiant chin. Now there was a maid who could be moulded into obedience without losing her spirit.

  When Arthur returned he found Uthr sleeping, the empty goblet still in his hand. Gently he took it and covered the man he loved above life itself against the night cold. Then he found a sleeping fur for himself and, protective of his lord, curled on the floor before the door.

  V

  Gwenhwyfar woke in as irritable a mood as the one she had fostered on seeking her bed, only now she had the added discomfort of a headache. Probably a residue from the wine she had drunk last night – the children were only to have watered ale, but sampling what the adults drank often proved too tempting an opportunity to miss. She lay a moment, snuggled in the comfortable warmth of her bed, her cousin Ceridwen’s back jammed close, the gentle rhythm of her sleeping breath rising and falling. Gwenhwyfar listened to the babble of birds greeting the day and watched, in a dreamy half sleep, as the shaft of light trooping through the single small window, crept down the opposite wall and lengthened its march across the floor. She ought to get up. Branwen would come bustling in soon, banging the door, thumping the beds, tutting and squawking at the girls’ laziness. She glanced across at the other beds. No one else was up, then.

  Damn that boy, it
was his fault she had this headache. His fault her mood was as sour as the taste in her mouth. Under her breath she swore a particularly obscene word that she had heard one of her elder brothers use. Did she have to wake with him on her mind? She repeated the word. And she had dreamt of him – curse him. Did he not even respect the privacy of sleep? Was it not enough to have sat laughing at her last night; to have taken Etern from her?

  Forgetting Ceridwen still slept she plunged from the bed, grabbed her clothing and dressed. She would find them both, give them a piece of her mind. She chuckled then, aye, and see how their heads throbbed this fine morning. Order her about, eh? Well, they had asked for wine and they had got it. Da’s best fermentation, strong enough to blow the scalp off a seasoned warrior’s head. She laughed again. The headache was lifting, her mood swinging into something more pleasurable.

  Whistling, she ambled to the door, and ran slap into Branwen.

  “Look where you go, child, and stop that noise; it is not a sound to befit a woman.” She stamped into the room, pulling bed covers off the sleeping girls: daughters of Gwynedd’s Elders, of Cunedda’s elite warrior guard and a variety of kindred, some older than Gwenhwyfar, some, like Ceridwen, younger.

  “Gwenhwyfar!” Her back to the door, Branwen lumbered around, the bulk of pregnancy making movement slow and cumbersome.

  Gwenhwyfar was almost out of the door; she paused in midstride, looked back with a sweet, innocent smile on her face, murderous words in her head. “Aye, Branwen?”

  “Where are you off to? There is much to be done this morning; you will help me.”

  “But I…” Gwenhwyfar ceased her protests; it was never profitable to argue with her brother’s wife. Etern and Arthur would have to wait – happen their pounding heads would last long enough to be showing discomfort later.