“Not built to keep the enemy out,” Cunedda had laughed once, with his youngest born, “but to keep you two horrors in.”
Cunedda might never return. His sons might never again stand and look to the beauty of the hills or across a tossing sea to Môn. War was bravery and excitement, but war was also death.
“Gwenhwyfar knows the reality behind the glory,” Etern said quietly. “Some of those who passed under that arch over there will never return through it.” His gaze pierced Arthur’s. “We are a close family. We do not ride to battle without bidding farewell. Never would my sister have failed our father. Never against her will.”
Arthur believed him. It was not a jest when he had said Gwenhwyfar was different from other girls. Oh, not different in the obvious sense. The serving girls back home, those drabs who toiled to fetch and carry, to clean and cook, were menials, workers, nothings. Gwenhwyfar was noble born, but there was something about her aside class and family connection. Pride? Character? Whatever, he wanted to know her, befriend her. There was a lot, he thought, to the real knowing of a girl like Gwenhwyfar. That was it, though – she was still a girl, a child, but one day soon she would be a woman grown. Arthur felt a quick sense of pleasure at the thought. He shrugged, unsure how to answer Etern without sounding condescending.
“The few girls I know seem a mewling lot to me. Quick to seek their mothers’ skirts.”
Etern’s sharp glare of reprimand told Arthur he had not then spoken tactfully.
“You forget – we have no mother’s skirt. Gwenhwyfar may seem a tiresome girl-child to you, but I assure you, she is not.” Etern’s voice was shaking – with anger or emotion, Arthur was uncertain. “We have had it rough, living along this coast. Da and my brothers have fought long and hard to make Gwynedd the land it now is. Vortigern knew what he was doing when he took Da’s northern lands and forced him to come here. Uthr had the soft side – exile to a wealthy, comfortable villa in the sun.” He rushed on, barely pausing for breath, arms waving, animated, pacing up and down. “Da’s founding more than a place where we live and rule. He is founding a dynasty. Gwynedd is destined to become powerful, a land that nurtures princes and fathers of kings.” Then he paused, with an earnest, pleading look at his companion. “Gwenhwyfar has grown with me, Arthur, learning from the first days we toddled together. She’s a girl thrust into the violence of a man’s world. She carries double the burden, for she needs to prove herself as strong and capable as her brothers.” The frown slid from Etern’s face and was replaced by a broad smile. “Although I grant her pranks can be pretty childish at times.”
“Like throwing water over people?” Arthur laughed with Etern. The two fell silent, brooding their own thoughts.
Below, the smith had finished the wheel, had returned inside his forge. A billow of steam and smoke hissed and curled from the open doorway, showing he was busy about some other matter.
“So,” Arthur said, pushing himself away from the palisade and straightening his tunic. “If your sister’s not moping or hiding in shame then she must be detained somewhere. Against her will.”
Leaping forward, his face suddenly pale, Etern grasped Arthur by the shoulders. “Could she be lying hurt somewhere?” He swung his head left and right as if he might suddenly see her. “Happen she’s fallen, or become trapped or…”
“Hold hard! Would she not have been found, either in the search this morning or since? Use your brain! Who was most affected by yesterday’s piffling incident?”
Etern calmed down and dropped his hands. “Yourself and Branwen.”
“Aye, and who has been parading around with the smug look of a cat who has found the cream?”
“Branwen.”
Arthur nodded, then leant back against the palisade once more, his arm draping along the top. “I would surmise that Branwen has some knowledge of your sister’s disappearance.”
“What are you suggesting?” Etern’s frown deepened. This hinted at a malice he felt reluctant to meet head on.
Looking away, Arthur studied the mist-swathed heights of Yr Wyddfa, beautiful against the cloud-patched blue sky. He had never seen mountains such as these. Quietly, to the hills he asked, “Have you ever been locked away as punishment?”
Etern shook his head and came to stand beside Arthur. “We are whipped, confined to quarters, or something. Why?”
A little laugh, forced in its humour. “Oh, suffice it to say I am familiar with such things.” Arthur chewed his lip, his nails digging into the wood. “I clash often with Uthr’s mistress.” He jerked his shoulders in a shrug of indifference. “Branwen reminds me over much of Morgause, that’s all.”
The other boy guffawed, his head tossing back, delighted. “Hardly. They are as different as queen and peasant.”
Arthur snorted. “Which one the queen?” Then, serious again, “Na, I did not mean like that.”
Etern’s frown returned as he considered Arthur’s insinuation. Was he suggesting Branwen would go against Cunedda’s authority? That she would… The suggestion was ridiculous. He flicked a hand dismissively. “You talk nonsense.”
For some moments, Arthur continued gazing towards the hills, not seeing the shadows that now clung to the slopes, damping down the vivid colours, making the heights seem brooding and oppressive. Dark thoughts of black places and slamming doors chased through his mind, of her laughter and his heart thudding, thudding. “Do I? You lead a good life here, Etern of Gwynedd. Your father is an honourable lord. You say you know the realities. Do you? What do you truly know of hatred and malice? Out there,” Arthur gestured towards the horizon, “out there, men die bloody deaths. There is no law, only an instinct to survive. Men take that instinct home to their womenfolk who become dulled by sickening reality. For that, the children suffer, because we are the poor sods who cannot fight back.” He stopped abruptly. Morgause knew Uthr would never set aside his wife and take her instead. She knew the reality and took that knowing out on the one who could say or do nothing against her. Cei and Bedwyr were Ectha’s own born, privileged, special, protected. But he, Arthur, was only a bastard foster child, at the witch’s whim and mercy. He finished with one word, spoken so softly that Etern barely heard: “Yet.”
Arthur was adept at rapid swings of mood. The cloud lifted from his face as the real cloud shadow lifted from the mountains. He strode purposefully for the descending steps, waving Etern to follow, calling cheerily, “Come on then. If Branwen has your sister shut in somewhere, we have to find her and let her out.”
Etern trotted to catch up with him. “Swords and spears! Have you any idea of the size of this Caer? Then there’s the settlement, beyond that the old fortress. It could take days.”
Arthur was running down the wooden steps; he jumped the last three. “I doubt Branwen would go where the men were billeted. The settlement, happen, but I’ll wager your sister is within these walls. Aside, what else is there to do this afternoon?”
As dusk approached, they were on the verge of calling a halt. Squatting on the sheltered top floor of the northeast watchtower, Etern shared the barley bread begged from the kitchens, while Arthur recounted some lurid ghost tale. His gleeful cackles and eerie moans adding some impressive embellishments.
A sudden flap of wings. Etern leapt to his feet, heart bumping. A creature summoned by the story? Na, only a bird taking startled flight. Hand on thumping chest he glowered reproach at Arthur’s crowed amusement, then peered negligently through the narrow slit in the wall that gave little light but served well for ventilation. Suddenly he waved Arthur’s laughter to silence. “Look! Over there, entering the chapel – Branwen.”
Arthur was on his feet, pushing Etern aside and squinnying through the opening. “Where?”
Losing interest, Etern returned to his bread. Branwen was always praying in the chapel.
“Now why,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “would she be going to the chapel this time of the evening? Surely she ought to be supervising the Hall – it will be time for gathering soo
n.”
“Why, indeed?” Etern’s reply was grim. Crowding behind the small aperture, they waited, watching. Branwen reappeared, glanced around and made her way back to the kitchens, unaware of her two observers.
Releasing his breath slowly, Etern slid his back down the wall and hunkered on his heels. “In all truth I assumed we were on a fool’s errand, though to follow it at least passed the day.” He flicked a glance up at Arthur, who stood watching him reflectively. “It seems I owe you an apology.”
Rather gloomily, Arthur squatted beside him, replied, “Branwen’s close to dropping her child; happen it’s a whim of hers to be alone – or something.” He shrugged. Plenty of the young women at home disappeared to secluded sites for a short while; admitted, they usually reappeared dishevelled, pink faced and hugging a secret pleasure. But surely a woman heavy with child would hardly be slipping away to meet her secret lover?
They waited a moment, each nurturing his own thoughts. “You had best fetch Osmail, Etern. I will go on ahead, over there.” Arthur jerked his thumb in the direction of the chapel.
“Gwen will be mortified if you find her in such a situation. You fetch my brother,” Etern protested.
Equally emphatically, Arthur countered with, “Where do I look? Where do I find one busy man among buildings I do not know? Go, Etern, don’t argue.”
Arthur gave the boy a firm push towards the south stairway, then ran to the north steps leading down beside the low orchard wall that met with the chapel and the door which, moments before, Branwen had pulled shut.
His enthusiasm waned as he approached the door, disappeared altogether as he reached tentatively out to push it open.
Inside, one lamp burnt upon the altar, throwing grotesque shadows leaping and flickering against the walls. There was a smell of stale incense, beeswax, and a mustiness Arthur found peculiar to all places of worship, Christian or otherwise.
Leaving the door open, and standing two paces beyond the threshold he allowed his eyes to grow used to the dim light, then began picking out the familiar cross shape of a Christian building. An unobtrusive door caught his attention. He walked to a recess, his steps sounding loud and unwelcome in this silent place, took a candle and lit it from the burning lamp. Hesitant, he went up to that door.
His hand hovering over the bolt, he did not know what to expect, though he was certain he had the right place. He convinced himself that the trembling of his hands was due to the fear of finding a girl’s dead body, but the truth taunted him. The close confines of dark crowding walls made his palms sticky and his throat taste sour. Shut in; silence. Cannot get out, cannot get out. He took a breath and drew the bolt.
The candle cast a long, wavering shadow over a rumpled blanket to one side. The room smelt strongly of must and human waste. Apprehensive, Arthur took a pace forward. A movement from the shadows on his left made him whirl round and drop the candle. It fizzed out as a pitcher crashed over him, spewing water.
“Blood of Mithras!” he gasped, water and surprise taking away his breath. “Are you so damned determined to drown me?”
Gwenhwyfar stood speechless. The faint light from the single lamp barely illuminated her hands, covering her open mouth. Slowly she raised them in a gesture of apologetic helplessness. “I thought you were Branwen come back.” As if that explained everything.
“Aye, well.” Arthur brushed at his wet shoulders. “As you can see, I am not.” He shook his head, scraping water from dripping hair. “Your brother is fetching Osmail.” Then, “Are you all right? You’re shivering.”
Without waiting for an answer, he fetched the blanket and draped it around her shoulders.
Gwenhwyfar felt flustered. Mixed feelings coursed through her: embarrassment, guilt, relief. She cradled her wrist, it hurt abominably. Without protest, she let Arthur lead her to the light and seat himself close beside her, but not touching, on the altar steps.
“I suppose we had best wait in here for the others,” he said. They sat and waited. The silence within the chapel grew, the shadows darkening, advancing nearer.
Arthur was trembling, his teeth chattering slightly.
Gwenhwyfar had to say something, some words to explain, to ease the shame. “I am sorry. It smelt in there.” Gwenhwyfar hung her head. “There was no utensil to use. I had to use the corner.”
“The stink clings, doesn’t it?” He spoke simply, as if he really did know, really did understand. “It’s getting darker in here.” He launched himself to his feet, went with rapid steps to the side door he had entered by and thrust it further open, as far back as it would go. Daylight was fading fast into a purple and red sky that promised another day of sun on the morrow.
He crossed to the main doors, lifted the securing bar and pushed them open, letting in more light.
“It’s dreadful when you are alone in the dark,” Gwenhwyfar said quietly, pulling the blanket closer against the numbing cold.
Again, Arthur answered, “I know.” He returned to squat at her side, uneasily, watching the encroaching darkness fill the holes of the open doors.
She was unsure what more to say to him. Finally, “Are you all right?”
He was fiddling with a battered gold ring on his left hand and staring into the looming shadows. “When I was younger, not so long past, Morgause used to lock me up.” He faltered, licked dry lips. “She would shut me in a place no more than a hole where there was no slit of light, nothing. It was like being inside a sealed tomb.” He twirled the ring on his finger, round and around. “I never knew when she might decide to let me out. Each time I believed she might never come back, might leave me there to die, huddled alone in the dark.”
“Why would she do such a thing?” Gwenhwyfar was appalled, could not, even after her own experience, comprehend such cruelty.
Arthur had no answer. He had asked himself the question many times, but had never found an explanation. Jealousy, hatred, just the pleasure of creating pain and fear – who knew with Morgause?
“Did your foster father, or Lady Ygrainne, never stop her?” In a family that knew each other’s secrets, each other’s fears and delights, Gwenhwyfar found it incomprehensible that such a wickedness could take place uncensored.
For Arthur, it was very different. “Ectha is frightened of her, Uthr besotted by her, and Ygrainne has no time for her, or me – hates me more than Morgause does. Lady Ygrainne spends her life with God. Morgause runs the household.” He was sweating profusely now, beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead, trickling from his armpits and down his back. His breathing was becoming rapid. The walls were closing in, falling in, the roof pushing, pressing; the blackness engulfing, chewing him up, gorging itself on his fear.
Urgently he said, “Would you mind if we went outside?” Not waiting for an answer, he bolted for the side door.
Gwenhwyfar followed more sedately, her blanket trailing. Arthur stood with his back against the wall, eyes shut tight, taking great gulps of the cool, sweet air. She put a tentative hand on his arm.
“I was terrified last night,” she admitted. “I was so alone; I wanted someone, anyone to come, but…” Her voice changed, defiance mustering. She looked directly at him. His eyes were open now, looking back at her. “I’m not sorry for what I did, Arthur.”
Managing a weak laugh he said, “I am – I was wrong. Etern was frantic with worry about you.” He put his hand over hers, held it. Her fingers were cold; he closed his own around them to bring more warmth. “So was I.”
“I’m surprised my brother has even remembered I exist,” Gwenhwyfar said bitterly.
“What?” Arthur pushed himself from the wall. “Bull’s Blood, he talks of no one but you: Gwenhwyfar this, Gwenhwyfar that; or, my sister found this trail, this bathing place, this whatever. He says your father thinks of you as a true Cymraes, not someone watered by Roman wine.”
Gwenhwyfar shrugged, flattered, but not ready to show her pleasure. “I am of Gwynedd, not Rome.”
“Bravely spoken, my
Cymraes fach, my little British woman.” Arthur was feeling better. His confidence was returning now the threat of those squeezing walls was gone, and the stars were shining now, their silver light soft against the black velvet of the sky. He still had hold of her hand. It pleased him to feel her closeness, her fingers in his own. “Etern is like a lost sheep without you, Gwenhwyfar. That’s not healthy for a boy of his age.” He added the last with muffled laughter.
Gwenhwyfar smiled at him, her eyes crinkling. She remembered her hand, and shyly withdrew it, finding that she liked him after all; he made her laugh.
With mock sincerity Arthur said, “I grant you are an exceptional girl, Gwenhwyfar, but a man needs other men.”
“A man needs a woman to comfort him through the night and to give him sons.” Gwenhwyfar’s retort came with a knowing grin.
“Aye, well.” Arthur grinned back, unable to counter her argument. He still trembled slightly, but the violent fear had dwindled. “Am I forgiven my bad conduct?” he asked.
He knelt before her, desperately wanting her friendship, needing her approval. “Forgive me, Lady. I offer my humble body as your friend and my sword as your servant.” Earnestly he looked up into the star-lit outline of her pale face, seeking her eyes, red-rimmed but with the sparkle fast returning.
Gwenhwyfar giggled. She could see now why Etern had been so captivated. Arthur had a vitality that swept you along with his enthusiasm and wild ideas. And suddenly, she realised his long nose and short-cropped hair were not ugly at all; in fact he was rather handsome, in a rough, rugged sort of way.
She took his proffered hand and laughed. “I forgive you and I accept your sword. Will you defend me to your death, from dragons and demons?”
“Dragons and demons certainly. Branwen and Morgause, na!”
Gwenhwyfar roared with laughter, then caught her breath as movement jarred the swollen wrist.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Arthur was on his feet, showing immediate concern.
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