A ground-nesting bird shrilled alarm and scrambled into hasty flight, its whirring wings beating up from the grass almost beneath the pony’s unshod feet. Splinter leapt to one side, squealing with surprise. Gwenhwyfar was thrown. Instinctively, she tucked in her head and rolled with the landing. Winded but unhurt, she lay still, her head burrowed into the crook of her arm. Then the ache took hold of her; sobs shook her body as she cried, her tears soaking into the grass that was already browning from the days of baking sun. The heartbreak of loneliness and betrayal stabbed and stabbed as her body heaved and choked, out there on the wind-kissed hills where the birds fluttered and chirped as if no wrong could ever be done to the world.
It was a long while before the grief was all spilled, before her body stopped its shuddering and the tears were cried dry. She lay broken and damaged, fragile among the warm heather and coarse grass, with the heat of the afternoon beating down on her back.
Soft whiskers from an inquisitive muzzle snuffed at her ear, rousing her. Stiffly, she sat up, head and eyes aching, throat dry and swollen. She fondled the pony, rubbing his broad forehead, pulling at his shaggy forelock. At least he was a friend. Wearily, Gwenhwyfar stood, found her legs were shaking. Stretching her hand to the reins, she leant against the pony’s broad belly, patted and fussed over him a while longer.
There was a chill to the coming of evening, a whisper of rain heralding the clouds massing distant on the sea’s horizon. A storm would grow with nightfall and the turn of the tide.
The girl made her way to a stream and drank, letting the cold, sweet taste trickle down her hot throat. She washed her face, patting handfuls of soothing water on red, sore eyes, then sat a while, hunched on the bank, watching the tumble of water as it rushed by, chattering and busy, down the hillside to join the slower flowing river and beyond that, the sparkle of the sea. A thought of Etern came to her. They had shared everything from the day she felt old enough to leave the security of her nurse’s holding hand – probably afore that also, though she could remember nothing before her third summer. She knew he must leave her soon, for he was close to becoming a man, and men could not take time to ride and play with girls. But not yet, not this summer.
Unsure what to do next, aware that anger was replacing hurt, she rebraided her hair and dabbed vaguely at grass-stained knees. Vaulting on to the pony’s back she turned his head and jogged slowly home.
Evening had taken full hold by the time she made her way into the stable yard. The place was busy; many of the men had passed the day hunting, returning in high spirits with some fine buck and a variety of small game. Bustling slaves took charge of their weary horses, walking them around to dry the lathered sweat, or brushing matted coats. There was the noise and laughter of shared excitement, tossed jests and mock insults from the men of Cunedda’s Hall, men eager to share their day, to relive the pleasure of the chase.
Gwenhwyfar led Splinter into a quiet stall at the far end of the stable block and began rubbing down his coat with a twist of hay. It was still thick and shaggy from the winter, great tufts coming out in dusty handfuls as she groomed. His chest, neck, and belly were quite damp with sweat.
Her father insisted a rider be taught to tend a horse in addition to ride it. “You cannot learn much of a horse by putting your backside on it. Know your mount. Know every hair on its body, then he will know you, and serve you well.” Gwenhwyfar enjoyed the work. The regular strokes, the steady, relaxing chewing as Splinter tore at hay in the rack before him. Turbulent emotions subsided, jangled thoughts ebbing into a dream-like trance with the rhythm of her grooming and the drowsing warmth and smell of horse and stable.
Lost in her work, she disregarded two mounts being led into nearby stalls. Standing on the off side, bending to scrub at an obstinate stain, Gwenhwyfar was unaware of who led them. A laugh that was becoming unwelcomingly familiar attracted her attention.
“That scruff at the end there is surely not your Da’s?” Gwenhwyfar’s jaw set, her muscles freezing rigid. She remained taut, waiting for her brother’s reply.
“Na, that’s my sister’s pony.”
Again a laugh. “I would have thought even a sister could have done better.”
Somehow, Gwenhwyfar held her rising temper in check. Surely Etern would answer in her defence? She waited, but he only chuckled.
Arthur then asked, “Would this be the same sister who served at table last night?”
“Gwenhwyfar’s my only sister. Aye, it was she who made a fool of herself in front of Uthr.”
Gwenhwyfar bit her lip. Why say that?
“She had spirit,” Arthur countered.
Who needs your approval? Gwenhwyfar mentally thrust a retort.
Arthur giggled, a stupid, childish sound Gwenhwyfar thought. “Just the one sister, eh? As well it was nine boys and one girl, not vice versa. Nine girls… whooof!”
Etern responded with another laugh. “Aye, one can be trouble enough at times.” He meant it, it was no amused jest.
Arthur was moving to the other side of his horse, attending to sweat patches left beneath the saddle. He had no experience of girls. His foster father had two born sons who, with himself, were the only children of the household. There were the servants’ daughters, of course, and a few slave girls working in the kitchens, but beyond superficial contact, Arthur had little to do with any of them. Gwenhwyfar had brought round the wine at table; he assumed all girls and women were set to serve, had no personal experience to suppose otherwise of Cunedda’s daughter. He observed quite innocently, “I doubt her trailing skirts bother you over much.”
Gwenhwyfar’s temper erupted in a howl of rage. She sprang from behind her pony, causing him to start backward in alarm, all the hurt and anguish exploding behind her as she shouted, “I may be an unworthy girl to your insolent eyes, but I will have you know I am high born of Gwynedd. I will not listen further to such insult! Splinter has served me with more loyalty than some I can name.” Here she flicked a hand contemptuously in Etern’s direction. “I am proud of my pony!”
Arthur stared, greatly amused at the furious whirl of hair and arms before him. He pointed at Splinter. “You are proud of that moth-chewed tuft of dune grass?” He rested a hand lightly on his own horse’s sleek rump. “I know Gwynedd’s famous for horseflesh – I assumed for riding, not eating.” He grinned, expecting laughter from Etern. The other boy remained silent, recognising his sister’s dangerous mood.
Arthur mistook the silence and teased further. “Tell me then, daughter of Gwynedd, do you ride this apology for a mount, or is he intended as a hearthrug?”
“Happen,” Gwenhwyfar retorted with dignity, “it is fortunate I am a girl. It seems the bastard-born boys of Less Britain do not have manners bred into them.”
Moving with quick steps, Etern came from behind his horse. “That’s no way to speak to a guest.”
Her answer was almost a snarl. First he had not wanted her, now he sided with this dung-heap of a boy. “He speaks disrespectfully to the daughter of his host.” To Arthur she snapped, “You will observe, bastard boy, I do not trail at my brother’s heels, nor,” indicating her bracae, “do I wear skirts.”
“Gwenhwyfar! Enough!” Etern glared at her, his own anger rising at this show of rudeness to his new friend. He lifted his hands in expressive despair. “Forgive her, Arthur, she is upset.”
Arthur gave a single nod of his head. What was there to forgive? Being snarled at, called a bastard? He was used to it. Everyone back home spoke to him so, save his foster father, Lord Uthr, and his young foster brother Bedwyr, who was too little to know anything anyway. He liked this girl; she was not like the servants, grubby drudges who poked fun, or whined or giggled and chattered. She reminded him of a wild cat he had once found caught in a snare. How it had spat and clawed and fought for freedom, even though a paw was almost severed. He turned, intending to fetch hay for his horse, waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “There is nought to forgive, my friend. She’s only a girl.”
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br /> Furious, Gwenhwyfar reached for the nearest item to hand, which happened to be a bucket of water. She swung the thing up, hurling the contents at Arthur.
Etern stood speechless. As did Branwen.
Guessing Gwenhwyfar would not be far from the stables, Branwen had come in search of the irritating child, entering the building just as the water dowsed its victim.
“Master Arthur!” she screeched, rushing forward to dab ineffectually at the dripping boy. To Gwenhwyfar, “You wicked child! You heathen demon!” Branwen glared at her, furious. “I will see you whipped raw for this.” She flapped her hand at Etern. “Run for a cloak, a blanket, anything to turn a chill from the boy.”
“Thank you for your concern.” Arthur smiled politely, dropping the British tongue to speak in precise, correct Latin. “I have come to no harm, it was an accident. Gwenhwyfar was emptying the bucket and I walked in the way.” He removed Branwen’s hand that was patting rather personally at his wet bracae.
At that moment, Gwenhwyfar hated him more than ever. How dare he make excuses for her?
“It was no accident, as well you know,” she yelled. “I threw it deliberate and aimed well. Could as easily do it again.” She whirled and seized a second bucket from the next stall, hurled the water. Prepared, Arthur ducked aside, and the full force sluiced over Branwen.
She stood speechless. Water dripped from her hair, soaked through her gown, spread in a puddle at her feet. Her mouth opened and closed once or twice, then her face puckered and turned a deep shade of puce. Without a word, she strode forward and clamped a hand around Gwenhwyfar’s wrist. The girl made no sound as she was dragged forward and borne away, too proud to cry out at the twisting pain of that vicious grip.
Besides, there seemed little point in saying anything. What was there to say?
VII
“Where are you taking me?” Picking at the fingers around her wrist, Gwenhwyfar attempted to pull Branwen to a halt. This path from the stable yard was rough shale and gravel, a narrow way, pocked by foot-worn hollows. Gwenhwyfar stumbled and fell forward, a stab of pain shooting up her left arm as she tried to save herself. Branwen hauled her upright and ploughed forward, a trireme under full oar.
“To your father,” she replied curtly.
Few things frightened Gwenhwyfar. In weapon practice she could stand firm against a thrusting spear or sword blade; she was capable of mastering a wilful horse or outfacing a snarling dog. Not for her the shriek of panic when a spider scuttled across the floor or a mouse ventured bold into a room. Punishment she could endure, but to face Cunedda’s displeasure, witness his disappointment? Fool girl, what had she done?
“My wrist hurts. Please stop.” She was close to tears, her hand throbbing, the fingers already swelling.
There was no turning Branwen when her mind was set. “It is time your father saw the wickedness that lies within you, child.”
Sweeping up to Cunedda’s private chambers, Branwen barely paused to seek admittance.
The Lion Lord of Gwynedd stood at a table studying a spread of maps and papers, his head bent to see clearer, fingers moving across the yellowish parchment. Grouped around the table were his sons and eldest grandson, and, pointing at some particular note of interest, Uthr. Cunedda glanced up at the unexpected entrance and frowned. Uthr withdrew his finger from the map, dark eyebrows raised in enquiry. Heads turning. Surprise, puzzlement and a flutter of amusement. A slight pause from both sides, men and woman.
Cunedda: “What means this interruption?”
Osmail: “Branwen? What do you here?”
At the front of the cluttered table, Abloyc, Rumaun and Dunaut, drew aside to allow the woman access, their grins widening as they noticed her wet and spoiled clothing.
“Gods!” Cunedda barked. “My maps!” He snatched the precious articles from threatening drips of water, tutting and barely listening as Branwen launched into the telling of her grievance.
Uthr tactfully busied himself with the view from the unshuttered window, choking back laughter at the account of Arthur’s dowsing.
Abloyc, however, always one for merriment, gave a great bellow of delight, echoed by his brothers and nephew. Even Osmail permitted himself a smile, which faded rapidly under a sour look from his wife.
“Why bother me with this childish prank?” Cunedda snapped, with no sign of amusement. “Is it not your duty to settle household matters?” Then, annoyed, “By the Goddess, woman, we plan a war campaign here.”
Folding her arms, Branwen stood in a posture of defiant determination. “And I plan to put end to the devilment within your daughter. She is deceitful and rude, becoming quite unmanageable.”
“I have not found her so.” Cunedda stood behind his table, matching the defiance:
Ceredig, leaning against the wall, interrupted. “Mischievous I would agree to, even impudent, but not the words you use, sister-by-law.” He winked surreptitiously at Gwenhwyfar.
Smiling back at him, Gwenhwyfar felt more at ease. Catching that slight gleam, Osmail frowned reproof.
Spreading her skirt, Branwen shook the sopping material and picked disconsolately at her bodice and bedraggled hair. “Look at me! I am soaked through, my gown is ruined and the servants are laughing behind my back. How can I maintain discipline within the Caer while this girl runs wild?” A thin wail entered her voice. “I may take a chill from this. I tell you, Lord Cunedda, I will have her hide if harm comes to the child I carry.”
Straightening from where he had been leaning over the maps, Cunedda folded his arms, said drily, “Happen you ought to have changed your garments before coming here.”
“I judged it best to bring this wicked deed direct to you.”
Cunedda sighed, exchanged a brief glance of mutual resignation with Enniaun and crooked his finger at Gwenhwyfar. “Come here, child. Why?”
Gwenhwyfar answered without fear, to the point. “Because the boy was rude to me.”
A smile threatened Cunedda’s composure. His sons were snorting, holding laughter in check. They had gathered in a semicircle behind him, interested in this digression from serious discussion. Only Osmail stood apart, and Uthr, who remained beside the window.
Pointing towards Branwen, Cunedda asked, “And was your sister-by-law rude also?”
Again a direct reply. “She stepped in the way as I aimed a second bucket.”
Uthr’s laughter mingled with the rise of chuckles and Cunedda found he dared not look at any one of them for fear he would lose his hard held restraint. Curse the lass, the little vixen! With forced severity he queried, “You are, I assume, sorry for what happened?”
Standing spear-straight before him, Gwenhwyfar debated a truthful answer. She would not lie to her father. “For wetting Branwen I am.” She paused. “Not for Arthur, save I’m sorry I missed him that second time.”
Again Uthr spluttered, smothering the sound with a strangled cough. Enniaun, Abloyc and the twins were laughing outright. Ceredig’s shoulders were shaking, a hand covering his face, spluttering noises coming from between the fingers.
Branwen raised her arms in despair, ignoring these fool men. “Gwenhwyfar has disgraced our laws of hospitality, disgraced Gwynedd.”
“Oh, come, that is exaggeration.”
“A prank cannot be construed as anything more than high spirits.” The laughter was abating, indignation creeping in as Branwen made more out of this than necessary.
Ill at ease, Cunedda shuffled a few papers. He agreed with his sons, but then Gwenhwyfar was running leeward to the acceptable of late.
Osmail came forward. It rankled that his brothers always sided against Branwen and himself, made their jests and snide little comments at their expense. Branwen ran this Caer. She was an efficient head woman, a good mother. They forgot that. Forgot where they would be without her.
“My wife has suffered gross humiliation, Father.” He indicated her appearance. “Insolence cannot be tolerated.”
“In my experience, the occasional dose
of humility causes no harm,” Cunedda observed. “Be that as it may, such behaviour will not do, my daughter. You are confined to the Caer for one week.” He hooked a stool from beneath the table and sat down, turning his full attention back to his maps. The matter was settled.
“You are not serious!” Branwen’s shrilled protest jarred through the room. The flat of her hand banged on the table, her other hand shooting out to jerk the girl nearer. “She deserves a public thrashing for this outrage, not mere confinement.”
The last shreds of laughter vanished, hostility snaking to the fore instead. Instinctively, the brothers gathered behind their father, Osmail in turn taking a step nearer to Branwen on their side of the table. Each side drew themselves up, frowns creasing deeper. Battle positions, second nature to a fighting man.
Thrusting the stool aside, Cunedda came sharp to his feet. “No child of mine receives public reprimand.” One had, once. Typiaunan. Butchered before the gloating eyes of Vortigern’s hired Saex.
“She needs a thrashing, and a thrashing she will get!” That was Osmail, defying his father, his brothers.
Shocked gasps. Osmail turning against their lord? Even Branwen took a small, hesitant step away from her husband, then recovered to move even closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
“Too long have your eyes been turned against discipline,” she said.
Cunedda had no time for Branwen. A woman in your bed to while away a summer night, or to snuggle against when the winter winds and snows raged, was one thing. But Branwen’s incessant bad tempers – why his son kept her, he could not understand.
He regarded Osmail through slit eyes, looked at him for perhaps the first time in many years. Always a disappointment, Osmail. A clumsy child, dropping things, tripping over something, a molehill, his own sword. Spewing or swooning at the merest hint of blood, unable to handle a sword efficiently. Grizzling when a younger brother bested him on the practice ground. Cunedda had despaired of the lad as a child, rejected him as a man grown. He ought have gone into the Christian priesthood.
The Kingmaking Page 5
