The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  He turned his attention back to Branwen. “I have more important matters to attend than household squabbles.” He raised a hand against the flood of answer and frowned at Gwenhwyfar. “You put me in an awkward position, daughter.”

  Chewing her lip, Gwenhwyfar looked down. For that she was sorry.

  Striding to the front of the table, swearing beneath his breath, Cunedda unbuckled his belt. “Off with your tunic, girl, let’s see this thing ended.”

  “Da, this is not warranted…” Abloyc had come round the table on the other side, his hand extended.

  Ceredig with Dogmail, appalled, joined him. “A whipping is no punishment for a child’s prank!”

  Osmail stepped in their path. “One such prank, happen not, but how many more need we endure from this devilish girl?” He glowered at Cunedda. “You whipped us often enough as boys.”

  “Never for something so trivial,” countered Rumaun.

  “Trivial! You call deliberately soaking my wife trivial?” Osmail bunched his fists, rage reddening his face, his anger all the more potent for knowing that his brothers were right. Branwen was overreacting in this silly nonsense, yet he had to declare for her, back her. He had not the chance of escaping her sour temper during the next few weeks as they had. “How dare you belittle her status!”

  “Belittle her? God’s teeth, she has welded her supremacy so tight, it would be easier to shift Yr Wyddfa a mile nearer the sea.”

  Cunedda raised his hand for silence. “There is no time for argument, we have more pressing matters to discuss. Gwenhwyfar!”

  She stood quite silent, staring steadily into Uthr Pendragon’s eyes as the strap whistled through the air five times to strike across her back. It was Uthr who kept the cry from reaching beyond her throat, not her silent watching brothers. Their mixture of sympathy and indignation would have unstoppered that tight control, but not with Uthr there. She would not disgrace her father before such a man by crying out, so she looked at Uthr and kept the pain from showing in her face and voice. When it was finished, her shoulders burnt like fire and her wrist throbbed sporadic drumbeats of pain, but the cry was jammed firm in her chest.

  “Satisfied, Branwen? Now be gone.” Cunedda swept his hand meaningfully towards the door. He felt anger and revulsion at himself for being pushed into administering a punishment he knew to be unjust, cursed the circumstances that left him no time to argue this dispute.

  Bobbing a brief obeisance, clumsy in sodden skirts and advanced pregnancy, Branwen began to chivvy Gwenhwyfar out of the room, waited for someone to show the courtesy of opening the door. Abloyc was the nearest. Casually he leant against the wall and folded his arms, his expressive eyes daring her to make comment.

  Branwen regarded her husband, a disdainful glance that ordered him to intervene. Resentment flashed across Osmail’s soul. Before all his brothers she put him down, trod him into the dirt. He came forward and opened the door, saying with pent-up malice, “One day, woman, you will push me over this hurdle of restraint.”

  Branwen snapped, “You have not the wit or the courage to even approach it, Osmail.”

  “A bitch wife and a coward husband.” It was Dogmail who sneered, who said the words that they all thought.

  Osmail turned, bunched his fist and hit him.

  Dogmail fell backwards, sprawling across the table, sending maps and papers flying, his nose spouting blood.

  “Jesu Christ!” Several brothers murmured the same incredulous expletive, standing gaping, mouths open, eyes wide. “Jesu!”

  Osmail flexed his knuckles, felt the soreness and bruising swelling already. He said nothing, but stumped out the door, flinging it wider open as Gwenhwyfar darted back in and skidded to a halt, her own expression registering disbelief.

  With no word he pushed past, shouldering Branwen aside also. She called after him for an explanation, but he stumped on, shoulders hunched, rage boiling. He had never hit another man in temper before. Never hit a brother. A brother, by God, a dear brother! And that woman, that nagging, managing, arrogant… He slammed the outer door, crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the smithy. There would be work to do. Best stay out of her way a while, she’d not be over pleased at all this.

  Inside Cunedda’s chamber all stayed still and quiet, exchanging glances, unspoken thoughts. Gwenhwyfar’s expression was enquiring, her gaze darting from one face to the other.

  Dogmail dabbed at his nose, his head tipped back. “Well, well,” he chuckled, “Osmail! Who’d have thought it.”

  “What now, child?” rasped Cunedda, seeing Gwenhwyfar. “Am I still confined within the Caer?”

  The question eased any remaining aggression; back came the familiar laughter. Enniaun and Ceredig bent to retrieve papers, Abloyc was fetching a stool from across the room, Uthr approached the table. “Fearless your daughter, my friend,” he said with a grin.

  Cunedda laughed, tension easing from hunched, tired shoulders. “She has the audacity of a vixen.” He ruffled Gwenhwyfar’s unruly hair. “Na, lass, you have taken your punishment,” wagging a solemn finger, “but no more scrapes this day, eh?” He waved her away out of the door, and turned to his maps.

  VIII

  Beyond the closed door, Branwen shook Gwenhwyfar, scolding her impudence. Despite the punishment she had achieved little. It was not enough, nowhere near enough. Taking firm hold, Branwen pulled the girl out of Cunedda’s apartments and across a rear courtyard. Well, a lesson would be taught, a lesson to be remembered! To the Caer’s chapel she took her, entering its dim interior by a side door.

  Does she intend me to beg God’s forgiveness then? Gwenhwyfar thought, defiance coursing at the idea. Never!

  A square-cut stone altar dominated the little building, a single lamp upon it remaining always alight. Gwenhwyfar bobbed a reverence before it, deciding it best to comply with whatever crazed idea Branwen carried in her head – for now. Sometimes it was easier to swim with the current rather than fight against it. There was always a shallow pool somewhere ahead.

  Branwen passed by the altar, however, crossing instead to the far side of the chapel, and only then, as she tugged open the door to a rarely used storeroom, did Gwenhwyfar begin to feel the first stirring of alarm.

  The priest, she remembered, was not at Caer Arfon. He had ridden out the day of Uthr’s arrival to attend some arranged meeting of holy men. The chapel was likely to be barely used for some weeks, save by a devout few.

  Briefly, Gwenhwyfar wondered if his absence was more than coincidental, the thought instantly forgotten as Branwen pushed her into the darkness beyond the door.

  “You will stay here until I decide to release you. In God’s sight you can dwell upon your wickedness.” With satisfaction, Branwen slammed the door shut and pushed its bolt home.

  Gwenhwyfar listened to the disappearing tap, tap of footsteps on the stone floor. The place was cold and rather damp. High to one side, a small ventilation brick, through which the last rays of remaining daylight cast shafts of eerie half-light. She sank to the floor and sat there dismally for a while, then bitter tears burst from her. She sobbed; it had been an awful day. A beating, her swollen wrist throbbing and throbbing, both pains of little consequence beside the loss of her brother’s loyalty, that was unbearable. Her heart broke. Etern needed the companionship of a boy near his own age. This boy, Arthur, was foster kin to an acknowledged hero; naturally her brother would feel drawn to him. He needed no younger sister trotting at heel when the call of nearing manhood came.

  For the first time in her life, Gwenhwyfar understood the sorrow of loneliness and rejection. It came hard to a child who had been close companion to one brother and under constant nurture from the others. Creeping miserably to a corner she felt a cloak hanging from a hook on the wall. Pulling it about her, seeking comfort from its small warmth, she sobbed more tears.

  The sound of a man urinating against the stonework of the chapel wall woke her. She sat up with a start, unaware she had slept, disorientated at first by
the dark and the chill. Did he not realise his blasphemy? Happen he cared as little for the Christ God as she did. No doubt he had mistaken his way to the latrine, or had not bothered seeking it.

  She wondered whether to call out. As she hesitated the man belched and stumbled back towards voices that rose and fell from the direction of the Hall. The chance had passed – would she have taken it? To shout for help would be an admission of defeat, a blow to her pride. Hunched beneath the thin cloak she sat listening to the distant rumble of thunder and the muted roar of a wild surf. How long had she slept? She felt uncomfortable, the growing urge to urinate becoming unbearable.

  Had she seen a bowl of some sort on that shelf? Body and fingers stiff from cold, Gwenhwyfar fumbled in the dark, knocked something over sending it crashing to the floor. The bowl. She choked back a sob, scrunched over the debris to an opposite corner and relieved herself, disconcerted as her urine splashed on the slate floor.

  Even with her lack of conviction for the Christian faith she felt ashamed at defiling holy territory. She remembered the man earlier, outside. He had probably been too deep in his wine to have noticed where and what he did.

  Returning to the corner where the cloak lay, Gwenhwyfar huddled into its scant warmth, doubting sleep would return.

  The sound of scraping bolts; she had dozed then. Heavy headed and swollen eyed, she felt suddenly aware of shivering cold and gnawing hunger.

  Branwen stood in the doorway, a flickering torch in her hand. Saying nothing she set down a pitcher of water and a platter of food. The door closed, and Branwen went away.

  Numbed fingers felt for the food, tears pricking Gwenhwyfar’s eyes once again as she almost knocked the pitcher over. She drank great gulps of the cool sweet water, easing her tight throat, then poured some over the hot swelling of her wrist. The pain eased slightly but came back almost at once. Frugally, she chewed the barley bread and goat’s cheese; she had no idea how long Branwen intended to keep her locked away, or when the next meal would come. At the thought, she regretted drinking the water so thirstily.

  For a while the darkness held no fear, nor the discomfort, though the hard floor did little to ease her hurts. But the isolation quickly became intolerable. Never before had Gwenhwyfar been entirely alone during the night hours. There had always been her nurse, or Ceridwen and the other girls; or a brother, or her Da. Always someone else’s back to snuggle against, to feel safe beside.

  Glaring flashes of light penetrated the blackness, followed by long, rolling booms of thunder. It must be late; sounds from the Hall had ceased. The Caer slept beneath the growling storm.

  Another great roar of thunder. The girls would be cowering in their beds, blankets over heads, giving little screams and moans. Gwenhwyfar would normally scoff at their silliness – but it was different alone, vulnerable, exposed. A muffled rustling stirred close by. Mice or rats? In the dark, the pattering movements sounded menacing, unfriendly. Gwenhwyfar’s heart pounded; she pulled the cloak tighter around her, sitting wide-eyed, shivering, as rain drummed outside and the storm swept over the bay and echoed around the mountains. She covered her ears with her hands and found herself praying to whatever God was listening, for the dawn to come soon.

  As it did, eventually. Daylight brought welcome sounds: fowl scratching nearby; birdsong and distant movement, some activity. Muffled calls of male voices, the snorting and stamping of horses.

  The sun strode high overhead when Branwen returned. Gwenhwyfar stood firm in the centre of her cell to face her. “My father will have something to say when he hears of this outrage!”

  As she set down fresh water, food and a chamber pot, Branwen’s laugh was low but victorious. “That will not be for some while. They rode out this morning, off to war. Laughing and joking as if they were riding to some holy day festival. Fool men, glorying in death and destruction.”

  Gwenhwyfar swayed, unbelieving. Her father and brothers off to war at Uthr’s side? Gone? Without a word of parting?

  “You lie!” she shrieked, running forward. “My Da and brothers would never leave without bidding farewell.”

  Branwen barred the door with her own body, holding the girl at arm’s distance. “You think not? A search was made for you, my dear, but you could not be found. It was assumed you were in hiding, ashamed at your conduct. The search was not over thorough.”

  “You lie!” Distraught, Gwenhwyfar threw herself at Branwen, fists beating and feet kicking. “I heard no call to march.”

  Branwen gave Gwenhwyfar a push that sent her hurtling to the floor. “Did you not? How would you know? The hearing of such is a man’s affair, not for a woman or child. There was a messenger last afternoon, I believe, some while before your disgraceful escapade, something about King Vortigern heading into Powys.” She shut the door, wearing a thin, straight smile of satisfaction.

  Stunned, cradling fresh pain from her injured wrist, Gwenhwyfar listened as Branwen walked away. She remembered the messenger who had arrived while Uthr talked with Morgause in the garden, who spoke of urgent news which had sent Uthr hurrying to her father. And the bustle that morning. Horses, men laughing and shouting. The army marching away.

  IX

  Etern sighed and kicked the wooden palisade with the toe of his boot; to emphasise his angry frustration, kicked again. He turned to gaze at the hills, watched as colour flicked from dark to brilliant to dark again, cloud shadows chasing each other as if playing some frenzied children’s game.

  “I tell you, Arthur, Gwenhwyfar would not take herself off after a punishment.”

  Arthur was leaning over the wooden parapet, peering down at the clustered settlement with its huddle of round and rectangular houses, its market stalls, taverns and other buildings that made up a thriving place where people lived and earned an honest, or not so honest, living. A busy place, even with the men gone off to war. Directly below, a blacksmith hammered at a bent wheel rim outside his forge. Arthur watched, fascinated, as the man’s muscles rippled across naked shoulders, strength pushing a piston arm up and down.

  “Aye,” he said at length, “your sister’s different from other girls.” As an afterthought said, “Wears bracae, has excellent aim – a fine temper too, eh?”

  Etern grinned at his friend’s attempt to cheer him. He liked Arthur. He had some quality about him, a daring attitude that promised excitement, danger and adventure. Why his sister had taken such a dislike to the lad, he could not understand. He missed Gwenhwyfar, her bright chatter, her mischief, but he enjoyed Arthur’s company. Somehow, the two had not come together.

  Arthur had a way of telling tales as good as any harper. He had told Etern of foreign lands, of Rome and Greece and India. Tales of strange beasts, long and striped or tall and spotted, elephants, lions, hairy apes. Of war and heroes, battles lost and battles won. Etern had learnt more these past days from Arthur, than from all those lectures droned by a succession of tutors. Arthur brought the past alive; his enthusiasm inspired Etern, who listened, thirsting for more. Gwenhwyfar would love to hear those tales – if only she would set aside her ridiculous animosity.

  “My sister would not hide.” Etern frowned into the glare of the afternoon sun. The storm of last night was quite gone, leaving the world washed and fresh, the air cooler and lighter. “No reasonable explanation would account for her missing the departure this morning. Gwenhwyfar finds it hard to accept she will never ride to battle – but that doesn’t stop her wishing for it,” Etern chuckled. “She glories in my father’s campaigns – and is as excited at Uthr’s war host as you and I. To miss our standard flying high beside the Dragon as our men march to war?” He shook his head, then swung round to grip the fencing. “Never!” He strode a few paces along the walkway, his fingers skittering along the top of the palisade. From up here on the high turf wall there was a commanding view across the plain that slid on one side into a wave-tossed sea and, on the other, raised up to meet the mountains that clustered, like a king’s guard, around the Snow Mountain, Yr Wyddfa.r />
  Etern stopped his walking and frowned across at the purple haze that was the Island of Môn. The Romans had stormed across those wind-whipped straits once, long, long ago, to put an end to the Druids who had made their sacred place there. Aiee! The stories told that there had been blood shed that night. When the wind blew just right, you could still hear the screams of the spirits that haunted the groves and the shadows. Women priests had fought and died there – women among the men, fighting for what they believed in, useless against the strength and power of the Roman Eagles.

  They were gone now, the Druid priests, save for one or two crazy men who clung like limpets to the way things had been then, way, way back. The worship of the old gods and goddesses was remembered, of course, but as habit, something that was always done. Who thought twice about touching sacred wood, or offering the gods a pinch of spilt salt? The Christ had altered all that. The Old Ways were changing, the new, striding forward to acceptance.

  Women went with the war host in those days, the days before Rome came to sweep the Old Ways into the midden heap and introduce the new, masculine way of things. Gwenhwyfar maintained that Rome was frightened of a woman’s potential capability. She was probably right.

  The memory of the past was strong today. The past, swirling and mingling with the present, spreading like a flare of torchlight, bright-pathed into the future. Caer Arfon, built from the ruins of Segontium, and Cunedda, both already legend. Cunedda’s wisdom and strength; the Caer’s four timbered corner towers, turf wall and wooden palisade. Beyond the settlement, another defensive wall set atop a soaring rampart and plunging ditch.