The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  “How? How was it different?” Cunedda stormed around the circle and jerked Enniaun roughly to his feet. “You know all about it, eh? You remember the taking and the killing at Dun Pelidr, do you boy?”

  Enniaun looked down, his fingers fiddling with the hilt of his dagger, teeth biting his lower lip. He remembered.

  The fighting men had stumbled and dragged themselves up the steep sides of the Dun weeping and bloodied. Knowing the bodies of their kinsmen had been left to the crows and the indecencies of Vortigern’s hired Saex. For five nights and days they held out before the Saex managed to fire the wooden palisade. Even then, Cunedda’s proud people clung to freedom for another half day, choking in the acrid smoke that blackened and invaded their crumbling fortress home. Held long enough for the wife of the eldest son to give safe birthing to their first child. Then Cunedda surrendered, opening the gates for the King to enter and take what he would, never dreaming the price of rebellion would be enforced evacuation – and the execution of that beloved eldest son.

  Lifting his head, Enniaun gazed into his father’s eyes. Remember? How could any forget the gathering of their belongings and being herded through those soot blackened, body-strewn, mud and blood-churned streets of Dun Pelidr? Forget the jeers and taunts of Saex barbarians and king’s men. Forget the rise of vomit as the family and people of Cunedda walked proud beneath the still smouldering gateway and saw, hanging there by the entrails, the hacked body of Typiaunan, Cunedda’s son.

  He swallowed, made to reach a hand towards his father, hesitated. Said instead, “I remember, Da. We all, save Etern and Gwen who were not then born, remember.”

  Meriaun, that grandson born while the flames leapt high and the end was approaching, came to his feet, his hands spread. “I was a babe little more than a day born when the tribe left our old homeland. Smuggled from the Dun as a serving woman’s child.” His voice too, choked, and the tears trickled unashamed. “I knew only my grandsire’s wife as Mother. The woman who birthed me chose to accompany her torn and mutilated lord into the next world. It was a brave love that gave her courage to drain her own blood from her veins.”

  Cunedda stood slumped, seeing again that terrible time. Slowly he shook his head. “And you ask me to take one or all of you into Vortigern’s camp?”

  He straightened, tilted his chin, defiant. “I go alone. If the King needs blood then he can have my old bones, not yours.” He strode for the door, his decision final, halted as Osmail, still seated cross-legged before the hearth, said, “I am coming with you, Father. It matters not, my life. I am no warrior. Gwynedd needs me not.” He looked up, an expression of pleading in his eyes. ‘Just this once, Da, acknowledge me. Think of me as the eldest, not dead Typiaunan.’

  A stirring and shuffling as the brothers and Meriaun turned to stare at him. Osmail? Osmail offering this?

  “Vortigern will demand a hostage to ensure future peace,” he added. “Happen I can serve better thus than mouldering useless here.” Still he held his father’s gaze. “I ask only that you take care of my wife and sons.”

  For a fleeting moment Cunedda hovered on agreement. How much better to have at least the support of one son! He looked quickly away from Osmail’s eye lest he see the truth, spoke as quickly. “No one comes with me save my chosen guard.” He left the chamber shutting the door firmly behind him. What use Osmail? What use his woman’s stomach, his clumsy handling of weapons?

  Stiff, stretching cramped muscles, the family of Gwynedd rose from the hearth, followed their father through the door, back into the Hall. Only Osmail remained seated before the sulky flames, tossing bits of broken twig into the fire. Hurting that no one, not brother, nephew or father had denied his acknowledgement of failure.

  An hour after cockcrow, Cunedda rode from his stronghold of Caer Arfon. A chill spray of mud splattered the horses’ legs as they rode down from the Caer. Steadying his stallion from a jogging trot, Cunedda looked back at the gateway, aware it might be his last look, willing to accept it so for the lives of his sons and the peace of Gwynedd.

  No good this remembering of the past! He urged his horse into a canter. Uthr had lost that war too, and Cunedda had lost everything, including dignity. Vortigern had enjoyed humbling him, seeing him near destroyed; enjoyed the added insult of granting a dark, mountainous corner where starving peasants lived in rancid poverty, and raiding pirates plundered what little remained.

  Gwynedd. Cunedda smiled grimly. Vortigern had played a wrong move. Gwynedd had rebuilt Cunedda’s pride twofold, and what could be regained once, could be gained a second time. Na, Cunedda would not sacrifice Gwynedd or his sons to Vortigern. An easy price to pay, a bent knee and a few spoken words of homage. He set his face for Llyn Tegid, riding at a steady canter.

  XVII

  Three days he was gone. Three days of waiting in the hushed Caer, where at any moment the war horns of the King’s hired Saex were expected to boom and crash through the passes and heights of the mountains. Three days of discomfort for Cunedda’s escort, squatting, huddled beneath sodden cloaks, beside hissing campfires and glaring across the river at Vortigern’s encampment.

  And then Cunedda brought his men home to Caer Arfon, one mid-afternoon when a weak sun struggled to break through grey cloud pressing as chill as unsmelted iron. His expression was inscrutable; only his hands, clutching the reins, showed his great anger. Speaking not one word to those waiting to bid him welcome, he stormed into his Hall, issuing curt orders to stand all men down.

  “Vortigern will not be making reprisal?” Etern asked, following, with his family and retainers.

  Cunedda made no answer, went direct to his own chamber where he slammed the door behind him and bellowed for wine.

  The evening gathering was a morose and dispirited meal with no singing, no laughter. One table called for the harper to tell a tale, but his heart was not in it, the chosen narrative a woeful story of lost love. Cunedda sat picking at his food, glancing often at his daughter. She caught his eye once and flashed him her most brilliant smile. He managed a smile back then busied himself with his pork. How can I tell her? How do I tell what I have done to save Gwynedd?

  The talk across the tables came in hushed voices. Few of the hosting had yet disbanded. They would drift away on the morrow at first light, tramping back to their homesteads and families, back to salvage what they could from the ruins of the harvest. Eyes flitted again and again to the red-haired lord at his table. On every lip, the same question. At what cost, this surrender?

  Uncertainty and disquiet swirled with the woodsmoke, as choking and blinding. Belatedly, Cunedda realised he had made a mistake; he must say something, some few words to dispel this black mood. Those watching him were like whipped dogs, squirming low on their bellies, reluctant to approach the master for fear of further reprimand. Men and women, his people, were entitled to some explanation as part payment for unquestioning loyalty. But the great Cunedda was at a loss. What to say? How much to say? All of it, some?

  Again he stole a glance at his beloved Gwenhwyfar, deep in earnest conversation with Etern. The pair missed young Arthur; it had been good, that friendship, and for Gwenhwyfar something more than friendship? Cunedda had been pleased at that discovery. A short-lived pleasure that, now.

  He pulled absently at his moustache. Do I tell her? Do I share this misery or carry it alone, for as long as I need keep silence? He exhaled slowly, coming to a decision. Na, let the lass hold the innocence and happiness of childhood while she might. It would be stolen from her soon enough. No need to sign for silence; Cunedda, rising to his feet and clearing his throat, settled the hushed conversation immediately.

  “I have little to tell.” He stood with the tips of his spread fingers resting lightly on the table. “I reached a personal agreement with the King. It is not to my liking, but for the sake of Gwynedd I accepted the conditions.”

  He laid his hands flat, the wood smooth and cool beneath his sweating palms. “We took a gamble and lost. Vortigern has claim
ed a high payment of corn, cattle and horses and such, for Gwynedd’s surrender. He will take many of our young men also, to swell his British army. All that can be met.” Winter would come hard this year, and the next. Happen the next, too.

  Cunedda flicked his cloak, preparing to sit then paused. “As to the other part of the settlement, that is for me to bear alone.”

  Low talk began again; wine was poured, food eaten. Cunedda plucked meat from a bone. His family knew not to question further.

  Abruptly, Cunedda pushed back his chair, strode into the centre of the Hall and cast the bone into the blazing hearth fire; burning fat spat from the flames. Anger brewed like fermenting fruit in his belly.

  “There is one thing you need know.”

  Faces turned expectantly towards him. Some sat with tankards half raised, others with meat or bread poised in their fingers. One man paused, bending to retrieve his dagger from the floor where it had fallen.

  His voice like the great boom of the war horns, Cunedda cried, “Uthr was betrayed – we were betrayed!” The words were as deadly as a viper’s venom. “Betrayed, by one who teaches love and peace. Vortigern knew where to find Uthr Pendragon.”

  They had taken great care to hide this knowledge, to conceal their direction, changing course and changing it again. That Vortigern would know of Uthr’s coming, and the war host, was to be expected. Spies in Less Britain, and the King’s Saex pirates keeping close watch to the southern channel, would ensure accurate intelligence. But Vortigern could never have been certain where the Pendragon was headed – Gwynedd, Dyfed, or home to Dumnonia? He gathered his army, made ready to march where and when needed, but he would not have known so soon. Not so soon.

  “One among us rode hard to tell Vortigern, to give him the edge in choosing the place to give battle.” Cunedda paused, then roared his great anger, “It seems our holy priest did not approve our plans to overthrow tyranny!”

  The response was immediate. A few protesting cries in defence of a holy man, hastily smothered as most let their anger go.

  Cunedda raised his hands, shouted against the din. “I knew Vortigern’s spies; knew them and fed them enough tit-bits to keep their bellies well fed, ensured they were safe detained when the time was ripe. But one, one I overlooked.” His eyes narrowed as he looked around the incredulous faces. With a sudden hatred he said, “There was no meeting of holy men, only the meeting of one turd to another. It was a man of God who caused Uthr’s death!”

  This, Cunedda knew, was stretching the truth. Vortigern would have come soon enough anyway; Uthr could as easily have been slain in battle without a spy’s tattling. Except the advantage had gone to Vortigern, allowing him to anticipate and outmanoeuvre the uprising before it was fully fledged.

  Branwen came to her feet, outraged. She detested this backwater and its heathen people. Her only solace had become her faith in God and she had a sudden, alarming vision of that too being snatched from her.

  “The father is a good man!” she cried, taking several quick steps to stand before Cunedda. “He is a man of God and answerable to Him only. You have no right to make such a vile accusation.”

  Cunedda turned on her. “Enough of your tongue. If it were not for my son you would have been thrown beyond my walls afore now. I have ordered the stoning of better women than you.” He was standing before her now, one hand raised, finger pointing. “Your Christianity, Lady, means betrayal and murder!”

  Someone echoed agreement, cursing the priest and his God. Another spat upon the poxed Christian religion. Voices began to rise, the curses becoming more volatile. It needed little for frustrated, bewildered and defeated men to reach for vengeance closer to home. Someone took up a torch, another cried for action. They rose as one and left the Hall, hands grasping more torches, the ululation of anger and defiance rising like the blood lust of the hunt.

  The cheering swelled as the fire took hold of the squat chapel, the laughter rising with the flames licking up the walls, eating hungrily at the roof.

  Branwen sat slumped in a heap by the hearth, weeping bitter tears at the roar and crackle of destruction. What was left to her now? Her church was gone.

  Osmail stood helpless, torn between his faith and his father. His mouth worked but spilt no sound.

  The three were the only occupants of the Hall; even the servants had run outside to witness the bright glare of burning. Cunedda was seated again, drinking deep draughts from his tankard. A small taste of revenge this, but as sweet as comb from the hive. He was aware his son followed the Christian religion with devoted passion. Aware, but suddenly, unreasonably, resentful.

  His wife had loved Christ, and Christ had taken her from him. Damn Christ! All curses on the Christian God.

  Brutally he said, “You may weep, woman. Shed your tears for a traitor whose action will bring more bitterness to this family than any pagan devil ever would.”

  Osmail knelt to comfort Branwen, then looked for a moment at his father, who sat swilling wine, seeming to enjoy the frenzy outside. Osmail, who could never say the right words, do the right thing. Osmail, who believed in the love of God above all else. Osmail, who had at last discovered what it meant, how it felt, to be master.

  He stood up and walked slowly over to his father. His throat felt dry, his heart pounded but this thing was for him to do, this last hurdle set for him to leap. “I shall leave on the morrow. My sons shall not be raised where God is not welcome.”

  “God is more than welcome. His traitorous servants are not.”

  “In my way, I am a servant of God,” Osmail said. “Am I then a traitor?” He paused, willing his father to say something more, plead for him to stay. Nothing. No word.

  “I will take Branwen to a holy house, somewhere that will appreciate generous funding.” He did not add, ‘Where I and my wife will be welcome; where I will be useful.’ He had gone to Branwen’s side. She looked up at him, her eyes full of wonderment. Was this her husband speaking? Was it Osmail saying these words she had prayed one day to hear? He helped her to her feet and she threaded her arm through his; went proud beside him as they walked from the Hall.

  Only once did Osmail feel an urge to look back, to look one last time at his father. But he did not. To look back would be to admit weakness. And he could not risk losing this sudden-found, unexpected courage.

  XVIII

  The first pink fingers of dawn were creeping across the paling night sky as Cunedda rode out alone, eyes hollow and red rimmed from lack of sleep, desperate to outrun the wallowing despair. He urged his stallion into a mad gallop along the sea-wet sand. The wind clawed at his cloak, stinging his face like arrows. The horse stretched its body, the firm, taut muscles rippling, strong legs pounding, crested neck extended, his small pointed ears flat back and nostrils flaring. His tail arched, spreading like a banner. Distance was swallowed beneath his speed.

  Cunedda let him run; let him go until he slowed of his own accord, head tossing, flecks of foam flying. The horse eased to a crab canter, slowed to a bouncing trot and finally down to a blowing walk. Cunedda brought him to a halt and slid, defeated, from the saddle to stand in the swirl of the incoming sea.

  Not since his wife’s death had grief torn so pitilessly at his heart.

  The ugly submission to Vortigern weighed unbearable. Conscience wrestled with pride of leadership. Was he right to put Gwynedd before his children? Yet all of Gwynedd, all the people – rich, poor, Eldermen, farmer, peasant, servant and slave – were they not all his children? Anger at the unjustness followed the outpouring of sorrow. The Dragon Banner flew for the new Pendragon. Like Uthr, this one would be back to fight openly or with more subtle means. Either way, the Red Dragon survived to claw its way to the throne. Vortigern knew this now, knew he had still to watch the shadows.

  Cunedda laughed, a roar of desperate grief, remembering Vortigern’s expression on learning of Arthur’s existence – no further sense in hiding the truth. He had told the King outright, after kneeling in public homage and
agreeing wholesale to Vortigern’s terms. It had been most pleasant to see the King’s sardonic smile of triumph wiped instant away.

  The brief glow of pleasure faded. The tide swirled around Cunedda’s boots, climbing up the beach. Because of Arthur’s perilous position, ungrown and untried, he had no choice but to accept Vortigern’s demands. No choice.

  A single gull swept low with a harsh, mournful cry. Cunedda crumpled to his knees, slammed his fists into the surf and raged at the bird.

  “By all the power I hold, and all the gods that ever were or will be, I shall see to it that the claws of the Dragon rake deep for this, Vortigern!”

  April 451

  XIX

  They were trying out some of Uthr’s best wine, stored for special occasions. What could be more special than an unexpected visit to the estate in Less Britain by Cunedda of Gwynedd? Besides, as Arthur pointed out, breaking the wax seal on an amphora of Vintage Greek, it would not keep forever.

  They drank companionably, the young man and the elder, admiring the red glow of a sinking sun and exchanging talk of brave men and braver deeds. A cool, pleasant evening for early April. Spring had come early, bringing mild nights and sunny days, a promise of a fair summer. Cunedda had risked the sea voyage, for he had need to talk with Arthur, the kind of conversation that could not be well written on wax tablet or scrolled parchment, or conveyed by messenger. This was for him alone to say, but now that he was here the saying was not going to be so easy.

  Arthur cut himself a chunk of soft goat cheese and said, almost flippantly, “So what brings the Lord of Gwynedd to my mother’s estate?” He lifted his goblet, a rare, fine glass of the palest green, and saluted his companion. “This wine is the best, but it does not warrant such a hazardous journey.”

  Cunedda loosed a brief smile. “Nor such a short stay. I remain but the one night; raiders are hovering off Gwynedd’s shores. My sons are capable, but I do not like to leave her too long.”