The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Those two spoken words were enough to draw a frown from Branwen, accompanied by, “One day, young maid, you will become headwoman to a household.” Her raised finger wagged with her scolding. “Come that day, you will need to know your duties.” Branwen waddled through the door, motioning for Gwenhwyfar to follow. “The dear Lord knows how I try to impress this fact upon you.”

  The morning dragged. A bright, sun-splendid morning with the birds busy about their nests and young, and the sky a perfect cloudless blue.

  The storerooms were deliciously cool. An arrayed army of pots and jars: preserves ranked along rows of shelves and upon the floor; dried fruits, spices and herbs; honey for sweetening and for adding to the ink used for the writing of ledgers and communications. Amphorae of oil for cooking and lighting. Salt, barrels of it. Further in, steps down to cooler, darker, slate-lined cellars where meat, smoked or salted, hung from low beams, and beyond, in a smaller chamber, cheeses made from cows’, goats’ and sheeps’ milk. Produce from the herds that grew fat from Gwynedd’s ample grazing.

  Branwen poked and peered, tutting often. A heady, potent scent clung to where the barrels of wine and ale were stored, a smell of last summer’s end, when the fruit had been gathered and pressed in the great vats behind the granaries. The jugs of apple and pear and wild flower wines were in plentiful supply, so too the barrels of ale, but the fine imported wine drew a burst of exclaimed dismay, the vaulted ceiling echoing her clicking tongue. Branwen wagged her head. “We will need to keep close watch on these; I pray Lord Uthr will not stay long.” She clicked her tongue again.

  Behind the safe shadows of the smoking torch she held, Gwenhwyfar grinned. There was enough wine in here to quench the thirst of two full Roman legions. Branwen did fuss so.

  Then out from the stores and across the hard-packed earth of the courtyard heading for the little dark room where gathered herbs were dried and ground for cooking and healing and, beyond, to the linen chests, a particular pride of Branwen’s. Few households could boast such fine-woven bedlinen.

  Gwenhwyfar trotted at the woman’s heels, her gaze drifting to the rise of hills beyond the Caer’s turf and timber walling, only half listening to Branwen’s list of chiding, so often had she heard the same round of complaints.

  “Your father should send you for fostering where this disagreeable side to your nature would be whipped from you.”

  Dutifully Gwenhwyfar agreed. Do the tasks, nod your head. Quicker to see the thing through than start a battle of words.

  There were steps up to the linen stores. Branwen tripped on the last, falling forward heavily with a startled cry. No matter how irritating she was, Gwenhwyfar would wish the woman no harm, for the sake of the child she carried if for little else. She put out her hand, concerned, offering help. “You ought to rest more with the babe so close to birthing.”

  Branwen heaved her bulk upright. Shaken, she replied, “Rest? Where would I find time to rest?” Fumbling with her girdle keys she unlocked the door and a waft of lavender-scented, sun-bleached linen leapt out at them. “I expect to birth this child while sorting out some incompetent’s mistake.” Branwen moved inside, her fingers lovingly touching the laundered items, selected what was needed and motioned for Gwenhwyfar to carry them. Rest? With the men preparing for war and such a large household to be responsible for – she peered narrow-eyed at Gwenhwyfar – and with this child, who preferred the run of the hills and a sweating pony, to educate into taking women’s work seriously? Branwen sighed. It was the Lord’s will that a woman should work to atone the sins of Eve. Rest? Rest!

  Uthr’s assigned chamber was close to Cunedda’s own rooms, built at an angle to the rear of the Hall. His room was empty, found to be muddled with armour, maps and discarded clothing. A man’s chamber. Bed furs lay in a heap, a wine flagon lay on its side on the floor, its contents long since soaked into the hard-stamped earth. More tutting from Branwen. She called for servants and muttering disapproval at the thoughtlessness of men, moved on to inspect the women’s quarters, and to the chamber assigned to Lady Morgause.

  Apprehension fluttered within Gwenhwyfar as she followed like a puppy in her sister-by-law’s squat shadow. She was well aware who she had collided with last night at the latrines. Aware this lady was not someone to treat lightly. Her temper had been heard throughout the stronghold and was etched in the cold beauty of her face for all to see. Gwenhwyfar was no timid girl, but, oh, did she need to accompany Branwen beyond this particular threshold?

  Morgause lay languishing on her bed. She barely bothered a glance at Branwen as she entered, but her brows rose fractionally as Gwenhwyfar came forward to place fresh linen for a servant to remake the bed. The girl risked a quick discreet look at the woman, her eyes darting away as they met with a dark expression of disapproval. She knew Morgause would say something, some disparaging remark.

  And it came, silky smooth, laced with the sharpened edge of a dagger blade. “Gwenhwyfar. The maid who holds no respect for elders, who does not watch where she is going and who thinks she can hold a man’s attention by prattling silly nonsense.”

  Frowning, Gwenhwyfar returned Morgause’s stare. Whatever was she on about? “I apologised for my clumsiness, my Lady. I was in desperate need to hurry.” She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “For the rest, I know not what you mean.”

  Morgause smiled. Gwenhwyfar noticed how that smile went no further than the lips, no trace of it touching her smooth cheek or blue eyes. A chiselled smile that could have belonged to a marble statue. If becoming a woman meant bustling tetchily from storeroom to storeroom, or lying a-bed while the sun rose high, making ambiguous, sarcastic comments, then na, Gwenhwyfar did not look forward to womanhood.

  Branwen had cast a hard, disapproving glance at the girl, but to Gwenhwyfar’s relief, said nothing. Branwen chided her many faults for her own good, but loyalty to your own came before courtesy to this immoral, painted woman. Politely, Branwen asked if the lady had all she required.

  Morgause stretched, arching her slender body, and lazily rose from the bed, unconcerned at her nakedness. She was beautiful, and she knew it. Walking like a sleek cat across the room she slid smoothly into a robe, seated herself on a stool and motioned for the slave to begin on her hair.

  “I would prefer quarters closer to my Lord Uthr’s.” Morgause swept her lashes low and blinked several times, staring meaningfully at Branwen. “We are an inconvenient distance apart.”

  “Our unmarried women’s chambers are all away from the men’s.” Branwen’s reply was stiff.

  Morgause waved her hand. “No matter. Distance increases desire.” She glanced at Branwen’s rigid stance and sober dress, her gaze lingering on the woman’s advanced pregnancy. “I see you keep close to your man.”

  Branwen tightened her lips, affronted. “The servants are instructed to bring all you need.” She turned on her heels to leave.

  Morgause waited until Branwen was almost through the door. “There is something…”

  Branwen paused.

  “The boy Arthur has orders to attend me. He has not made an appearance this day.”

  “I will instruct the servants to find him.”

  Seizing her chance Gwenhwyfar said eagerly, “Shall I go look for him?”

  Morgause spread one of her dazzling smiles that sparked nothing of friendliness. “Do so.”

  Tossing an impish grin at Branwen, Gwenhwyfar skipped off before her brother’s wife could countermand the order. She searched the Caer and made cursory enquiries through the bustling settlement, to discover the boy Arthur was nowhere to be found.

  Nor, for that matter, was her brother, Etern. Damn them both! No, damn Arthur; it was he who had captivated Etern.

  By early afternoon she gave up the search and, instead, headed for her special private place, a sanctuary of quiet where she could think or dream. She fleetingly wondered whether she ought to report back to Morgause, but decided against the idea. It was Arthur, after all, who was in trouble wit
h the woman, not herself. Sitting with her long legs twined around the sturdy bough of a large old tree at the far side of the orchard, she thought over the morning, wondering where Etern had got to and who Arthur was, beyond the scant information she had already gleaned. And then there was Morgause to consider.

  Morgause, how different from Branwen. Gwenhwyfar giggled to herself, stretched her arms above her head and settled her back more comfortably against the sturdy old trunk. Uthr’s mistress epitomised all Branwen detested. What fun! She would tell Etern of this morning’s encounter. How he would laugh. Morgause with no shame, Branwen bristling with disgust. The Christian priest lay behind Branwen’s fastidiousness, of course. Gwenhwyfar considered him a sanctimonious fool. Once, she had asked her Da why he tolerated the man. Cunedda had replied that it was politic to accept the Christian faith.

  “Jesu Christ poses no threat to Gwynedd or to me. He’s as welcome to my hospitality and acknowledgement as any who bring peace and prosperity.”

  All very well, Gwenhwyfar thought now, closing her eyes against the dance of dappled sunlight. The Christ might be welcome, but need we suffer Branwen’s morals?

  Voices. Two people talking beyond the wall in the confined space of the herb garden. Morgause’s shrill of laughter and an answering deep-throated chortle. Uthr. Gwenhwyfar’s eyes snapped open: she sat hastily forward, grabbing at a branch to steady herself; the bough swayed, settled.

  They had stopped not far from the overhang of her tree. Looking down through the glossy spring foliage, she could see them, standing close together against the sun-warmed wall.

  “Is it not pleasant here, Morgause? I said you would enjoy Gwynedd.”

  “No, it is not.” A whine crept into her correct Latin – not for her the soldiers clipped accent or the common British tongue. “I have barely seen you, Uthr.” Then impatience. “And the boy has disappeared.”

  Gwenhwyfar chewed her fingernails. Should she make herself known? It was wrong to listen to private conversation, but…

  Morgause was talking. “Arthur is becoming more disobedient as each day passes. He is at an age, Uthr, when he thinks he can rule the roost, but I tell you…”

  The man sighed, interrupted, and peeping through the leaves Gwenhwyfar could see him stroking Morgause’s slender arm.

  “He’s high spirited.”

  “He is a self-willed, spoilt brat.”

  From her hidden place Gwenhwyfar nodded her head in vigorous agreement with Morgause’s sharp response. Aye to that!

  Uthr was standing very close to his mistress; his hand had slid around her waist. “Leave the lad be, it is his first time away from the estate.”

  “I do not know what possessed you to bring him.”

  “I like him.”

  “Huh!”

  They fell silent. Gwenhwyfar peeped again. Uthr’s head was very close to Morgause. He kissed her, his hand sliding up to caress her breast. Irritably, Morgause pushed him away but did not step aside. “Not here, not where Cunedda’s people may see.”

  “What? Becoming modest of a sudden?”

  She ignored the sarcasm. “You ordered the boy to ensure I had all I needed.”

  Uthr tried again to kiss her but she jerked her head away. “The boy is a lazy good-for-nothing. I will thrash his backside when I catch up with him.”

  “For punishment or pleasure?”

  Morgause laughed, a false, forced sound. “My Lord, what thoughts you have.”

  Uthr laughed with her, but there was a rumbling growl beneath the flat humour. “I know your ways, Morgause, and have a distaste for them. I am fond of the lad. Leave him alone.”

  The laughter quite gone, and jealousy rising, Morgause sneered, “Fond of him? Do I not know it!” She swirled some few paces away. “Why did you bring him? Because you could not bear to be parted from him? Because you could choose which one of us warmed your bed at night – choosing him last night?”

  Gwenhwyfar’s grip almost slipped, so far out was she leaning. Uthr had stormed forward, his hand slapping a resonant blow across Morgause’s cheek.

  “You have a twisted mind, woman!”

  “An open one. Why else are you so taken with a servant’s by-blow? Why else did you persuade your brother to foster him?”

  “The fostering was Ectha’s decision, and I’m fond of the lad because he has the making of a good soldier.”

  Changing tack, Morgause began fiddling with the lacings of Uthr’s tunic. “As I have the making of a good wife?”

  “For someone, possibly.”

  “For you?” She was cuddling close.

  “I already have a wife.”

  Morgause flounced away. “A wife? You call that God-kneeling, virgin-breed a wife?”

  “She is a good woman.” Uthr re-laced the ties. “As for the boy, I brought him because he needs the experience. Ectha’s eldest own-born son, Cei, would also have come had he not been stupid enough to break his leg. Satisfied? Or do you need further explanation?”

  He put his hands on Morgause’s shoulders. She twitched, indicating she did not want his touch. “I say again: the boy came because I like him. Ygrainne is my wife; I happen still to like her. What do you want?” The last, to a servant hovering uncertain on the far side of the garden.

  “Forgive me, Lord Cunedda sends for you. Urgent word comes from the south.”

  Uthr nodded curtly and waved the man away. He turned back to Morgause. “You, I love.” He kissed her forehead and, without a backward glance, swung away across the garden.

  After a while Morgause also left, walking away with quick, angry steps.

  VI

  Gwenhwyfar released her breath in a long, slow exhalation. She was an honest girl, with a dislike of lies and deceits; it was wrong to listen to others’ conversation, but if Uthr and Morgause had intended secrecy why talk in the public space of a garden? They had spoken of nothing of great importance, no confidences or intrigue. She chewed her lip, considering, her fingers toying with a braid of hair. Best to keep quiet. No one knew she had been in this tree, after all. Squinting through the green canopy at the floating blue sky, Gwenhwyfar checked the orchard. Two goats solemnly chewed the cud away to the left, geese were preening beneath the shade of a favourite tree, but no people. No one to ask awkward questions needing evasive answers. This heat was becoming oppressive, too close and stifling. She slithered from her bough and, swinging to the ground, strolled across the orchard for the Caer’s western gate. She would go to the paddock, catch Splinter and ride to the hills. It would be cooler there, more of a breeze. She might even paddle her feet in a stream, or swim in the pool beneath the waterfall.

  Coming round the granary building she stopped short, her jaunty, whistled tune catching in mid note. Leaping back, Gwenhwyfar flattened herself against the roughness of the lime-washed wall, drew breath before tilting her head to peep round the corner.

  Morgause was standing in the path of Arthur and Etern, whose horses were slithering to a startled halt. A flourish of spite panted through Gwenhwyfar. She watched, a satisfied smile creeping across her lips, as Morgause marched up to the two boys. Good, Arthur was to have a telling off.

  His horse shied at the woman’s sudden movement and shouting voice, colliding with Aquila, who bounded forward tossing his head and snorting.

  “Take care, my Lady! The horses are edgy for want of exercise.” Etern’s rebuke was taut but polite. Morgause ignored him.

  She took hold of Arthur’s bridle. “Where have you been all morning?”

  Suppressing anger and acute embarrassment, Arthur replied with curt civility, “Etern and I were first with Lord Uthr. We went then, at his suggestion, to speak with Lord Cunedda. He has commanded Etern to show me the horse runs.” The boy looked at her scornfully. “Would you rather I ignore either of my lords for your benefit, Lady?”

  Uthr had lied! Morgause caught her breath, her fingers clamping tighter around the bridle straps. He had known of Arthur’s whereabouts. He had known! The basta
rd had lied to her, shielding the boy. In a voice filled with hatred she spat out, “Do not think, boy, you will be permitted to run wild here in Gwynedd. I shall see to it that you do not.”

  She swished her skirts as she strode away, making the horses snort again, dancing in agitation. Etern stared after her, mouth slightly open.

  Soothing his mount, Arthur said low to the woman’s departing back, “I bet you will, you bitch.” He brought his hand up in an obscene gesture.

  Etern looked across at him, said mildly, “I take it you do not much like Lady Morgause.”

  Arthur laughed, breaking the tension. He squeezed his horse forward. “Na, not much. The only person to like her is Uthr.”

  For Gwenhwyfar, that small moment of pleasure for Arthur’s discomfort had passed. She did not like him, but disliked Morgause even more. The woman had a cloak of evil clinging to her, a darkness that made your flesh crawl and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. A pulse of sympathy for Arthur flickered briefly. It must be unpleasant to be constantly under that woman’s command. Gwenhwyfar slid from her hiding place and ran forward waving her arm to attract attention. It would take only a moment to catch Splinter – she would ride with the boys.

  “Etern! Hie, brother!”

  The horses were trotting, eager to be away. Etern glanced over his shoulder, saw his sister and called, “Later – I am too busy for you now.” And he was gone, riding through the entrance tunnel running beneath the twin watchtowers.

  Gwenhwyfar felt numb, stunned. She stood staring in disbelief, her arms hanging at her sides, her head empty of thought, incapable of movement. She and her brother had always done everything together. Always. “Too busy for you” hammered and hammered at her. Etern, her beloved brother. Too busy.

  Fighting back tears, she walked into the stables, not certain where she was going, what she was doing, just doing it by habit. She lifted her pony’s bridle from its peg and went from the Caer down to the paddock. Splinter was a friendly pony, easy to catch; he allowed her to slip reins over his head, put the bit in his mouth and fasten straps in place. Not until she was mounted on his warm, bare back and cantering up the valley towards the gentler slopes of the higher hills did she let the tears come. In her misery, Gwenhwyfar urged the pony faster, let him have his head, his sturdy legs stretching forward, mane and tail streaming, her own hair coming loose from its braiding. The wind whistled in her ears; whipped away falling tears.