The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Cunedda bit his lip, strangling a roar of laughter. He stood, retrieved the broken top half of the stem, looked at it with grave concern. “Aye, well, I imagine the thing needed pruning.” He managed to stammer the words before the effort of restraint evaded him and he doubled up in laughter.

  Enniaun, laughing also, bent to retrieve the bottom half. “Curb your enthusiasm, Arthur,” he grinned, “else we will be answerable to Vortigern for wrecking his apartment.”

  Red-faced, stammering apologies, Arthur found his stool and sat down.

  The laughter died, Cunedda dozed as lighter conversation gradually drifted to more mundane matters. Wine was poured and drunk as the young men exchanged notes on the virtues of women.

  Cunedda sat quiet, drifting from sleep to thought and back to sleep. They needed time, a thing they never had. Time for Arthur to mature. Time for the elders and the British army to realise the great potential of this young Pendragon. Talk diminished momentarily and Cunedda, jerking awake, asked, as if an hour had not elapsed, “This use of cavalry, Arthur. Is it all formed of your own ideas?”

  “A compilation of my veteran friend, Attila’s history, and what I have read – the works of both Arrian and Xenophon on horsemanship are most informative.” Arthur shrugged. How to put the vivid images of his dreams into words? To face an enemy with a disciplined and united cavalry. An almighty, unstoppable force pounding down, forward… ah! “I have discussed the thing with Cei; between us we have thrashed out the problems.” He paused and said with an impudent grin, “Or rather, I have put the ideas and Cei has pointed out the pitfalls.”

  Tugging at his moustache, Cunedda asked, “And what conclusions, Pendragon, have you reached regarding mounts for this wondrous cavalry? Until men like my father’s father began cross-breeding fine horses, Rome imported its stock from Arabia. We do not have the ships or the funds to do that.” He deliberately cultivated a blank expression, talked in a flat tone. As if he could not guess the answer.

  Arthur beamed. “Your best horses are descended from those same desert bred Roman imports. Strong, swift, surefooted and stout-hearted warriors’ mounts that do well, even on poor pasturing and in a bad winter.” Arthur’s grin broadened, showing straight, even teeth, white against his wind-tanned skin. “I would come to Gwynedd.” He lifted his hands. “Where else?”

  Cunedda maintained his impassive expression; the muzziness of drink had cleared, that short sleep reviving his flagging energy. He barked, “You are talking thousands of horses, boy! Remounts, as my son said, and remounts and remounts. Horses die, horses fall sick. Mares need the seasons to breed, to drop and suckle their foals.”

  The Pendragon’s buoyant confidence wavered. He chewed the corner of his bottom lip. Then, softly, “I know.” He felt deflated, beaten. What nonsense was this? These men who would not listen were commanders, seasoned warriors, experienced with shield and sword, veterans of battle. They would not listen because he talked nonsense, a boy’s prattling.

  Cunedda took his time to drink a last cup of wine. When it was emptied he placed the goblet carefully beside him on the table and folded his arms across his belly, which still felt full.

  “Are you so easily defeated then, boy?” he boomed, causing Arthur’s drooping head to jolt upright. “Your father stopped at nothing to gain what he wanted. Aye, he had to wait and wait again, but he never hung his head in defeat. Never. Even as that last sword slashed into his body he fought on, fought on his knees and kept fighting until the blood had all run from him.”

  Angered at the unjustness of the taunt, Arthur thrust back with, “Na, he stopped at nothing to get his way. He wrecked my mother’s life and my childhood. Because of his ambition you were forced to kneel before Vortigern in homage – twice. And for what, in the end? His death!”

  Cunedda sucked in his breath, reeling at Arthur’s attack – which struck all the harder, for he spoke the right of it. He pointed a finger, the golden lion’s head of his ring seeming to leap at Arthur. “You do not ask the impossible. My great-grandsire ran four, happen five times the stock you need – the highlands were adequate then, of course. We were granted overlordship of the Votadini because of our horses.” Cunedda shrugged, setting aside the pang of memory for those high hills and sweeping moors. He grinned, his face suddenly young. “I see no reason why Gwynedd could not do the same for you.”

  Arthur felt a sudden, soaring elation; he sprang to his feet and strode over to Cunedda, demanded, “My idea is not so stupid? This thing could succeed?”

  Etern interrupted, coming also to his feet, caught up in the excitement. “We have good stallions and mares but it would take a while and a while to breed on such a scale again.”

  Enniaun was behind him. “The initial outlay, then the supply for future years. It would only take one fight to go bad, and close on all the horses would need replacing.”

  “Na, my son, with careful management it can be done.” Cunedda was making rapid calculations, taking into account the yearlings and foals to be dropped this year. Then there were the two- and three-year-old colts. Sales had been low for some while – the failing economy and unsettled times made men wary of paying out for extravagances. Who needed a fine-bred horse when oxen were more suited to pulling wagon or plough?

  “If I can be sure the Hibernian sea wolves have begun to understand my coastline is not for them, then I will be free to breed – and train – uninterrupted. Horses are not broken to carry a rider in battle overnight. It takes months, years.” He slapped his knee with the palm of his hand, and rose to embrace Arthur. “Aye, lad, I can breed you such a cavalry. Once you were up and leaping, you could raise additional stock elsewhere.” He offered his hand to Arthur, who took it warmly, returning the Lion’s strong grip. Had it all been as easy as that?

  Seating himself again, Cunedda leant back against the comfort of his couch and crossed his legs at the knee. “If, of course, you can come up with some equally brilliant method of payment. I do not breed horses for nought. I am wealthy, boy,” Cunedda thrust his grim, determined face at Arthur, “and intend to stay so!”

  There was always the sting in the tail. Uneasily Arthur drew back a little, Etern and Enniaun on either side of him, waiting. He wiped a hand nervously over his mouth, found to his annoyance he was sweating. “I have considered that also.”

  Cunedda waited.

  The words were unexpectedly difficult to spit out. Why? It was a natural enough proposition, was it not? A common way of settling business. Words tumbled from Arthur’s mouth like a stream at winter snow-melt.

  “When I become king, I intend to raise taxes from my father’s lands that shall then be returned to me, and from the fat merchants of the south. In the main it’s they who demand the protection, so they must contribute towards the cost.” That part was easy; this next made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “Initially, I would accept the horses as a marriage portion with your daughter.”

  Cunedda’s heart jolted, seemed to stop then began pounding wildly. He felt sick, the surge of rich food and sweet wine rising almost into his mouth. Fool! Damned blind, idiotic fool! Why had he not anticipated the obvious? What was he to say? How could he answer?

  He studied the expectant faces of his two sons. They were nodding and smiling, agreeable to the idea, Etern even patting Arthur between the shoulders, especially pleased.

  Cunedda stood. His bones ached; the tiredness had returned with a vengeance. He walked slowly across to the window, opened the casement, stood looking out at the river mist that lay over the dark gardens. Somewhere an owl screeched, its cry mournful in the darkness of early morning.

  The pleased laughter behind him subsided. Why did he not answer?

  He had known this day would come. These months, these years, he had known he must one day reveal the second part of that dirt-encrusted, enforced submission to Vortigern. He should have told of it then, but it had hurt too deeply. The buying of freedom by the binding of another. It hurt as much now, more, but it
had to come out. He faced the room. Turned to his sons and Arthur.

  “You cannot. Gwenhwyfar is already pledged.”

  XXII

  Stillness. No word, no murmur. Then, like hounds released from the leash to the strong scent of a stag the two brothers protested, shouting together, questioning, expressing outrage.

  “Who to?”

  “When?”

  “Why?”

  Nothing from Arthur. Oblivious to the surge of anger around him, he remained quiet, numbed, cheated.

  The possibility had never occurred to him. She had never been far from his mind; always, since that night of childhood parting, he had assumed she would be his, one day. Gwenhwyfar had been special to him even then. She was his, damn it. His!

  This evening, he had been so certain she still felt the same, that she had not changed. The long legs, awkward body and freckled, usually grimed face were now just a memory. In their place, copper-gold hair, tamed – though not altogether obedient – framing a perfect face, with gold-flecked emerald eyes that had flashed with pleasure whenever their gaze met across the banqueting hall. He wanted to hold her, take her for his own. To talk and laugh with her, share that special closeness they had found on the hills of Gwynedd. Arthur had always intended to come back for her. For her, not for the horses… that idea had come later.

  His throat felt dry, choked. With a shaking hand he reached for wine, hoped no one noticed the spillage as he lifted it to his lips. Mithras, he had been so sure of her! Had he been deceived then, by those innocent green eyes? She was devoted to another. Who? Whoever it was, he would kill him before he laid a finger to Gwenhwyfar.

  “What means this, Father?” Etern demanded. His elder brother, with a calm that did not fool anyone, added in a low voice, “You said nought of this.”

  “Must I then discuss my plans with you?” snapped Cunedda. Enniaun was his favourite son, the eldest since Osmail had left Gwynedd. Cunedda had never raised his voice to him before.

  “This must spoil your plans, Arthur,” Etern remarked wryly. “I trust you were not considering marriage with our sister on the grounds of gaining Gwynedd’s horses alone. Happen you would do better to wed one of our mares.”

  Cunedda remained by the window. Tears were brimming in his eyes as he held his hands, palm open in attempted apology, out to Arthur. “The horses are yours when you need them, lad. Payment can be negotiated later.” He added, well intentioned, “There are plenty of wealthy young women ripe for the picking.”

  “But Da,” Etern entreated, “Gwenhwyfar loves Arthur.” He looked pleadingly from his father to the Pendragon, “I know how much she loves you.”

  Arthur shrugged as if he did not much care. “Love?” he said off-handedly. “What has love to do with marriage? Happen you speak right, Cunedda.” He grunted a single rasp of laughter. “I ought wed with Vortigern’s daughter. Her dowry would buy ten times the number of horses I need.” His jesting was flat and unconvincing. He walked to the table, refilled his goblet and raised it to his lips, to mask the stabbing hurt.

  The one comfort, if it could be so described, this seemed not to be of Gwenhwyfar’s doing.

  Etern glared fiercely at his father. “Why have you not spoken of this? How could you betray my sister? Does she know of it?” He snorted. “I assume not, she would never have agreed.”

  Cunedda rubbed his hands together; the palms were damp, sticky. “She does not know. I bargained hard for Vortigern’s agreement that, for the time being, none save he and myself were to know. He was willing to have it so, a shared knowing between the two of us alone.” Cunedda spat. “The King must leave his options open. For the sake of an alliance, there might have come a more urgent need to mate his nephew elsewhere.”

  An explosion of fury, like ill-set pottery within a kiln.

  “What?”

  “Vortigern’s nephew? Melwas?”

  “You agreed to wed my sister with that murdering braggart?”

  “That slime-trailed, hag-spawned bastard!” Arthur hurled a couch over as he darted at Cunedda, taking hold of the older man by the loose folds of his tunic. “Melwas?” He hissed. “She’s to marry Melwas? Are you serious? Are you the prime madman of all Britain?”

  Etern was at his side, just as livid, made no movement to loose Arthur’s clamped fingers. “Melwas is an evil, malignant snake!”

  Enniaun, a pace behind, said, “He’s hand in fist with Saex scum!”

  Melwas, the second son of Vortigern’s sister; brother to Gorlois, erstwhile husband of Uthr’s wife, Ygrainne. Melwas, captain of the King’s personal guard. Melwas, who had lied and cheated and murdered his way to power, wealth and a trusted position at the King’s side. If the Pendragon had enemies, then Melwas was chief among them.

  Softly, his words all the more menacing, Arthur said, “I shall never allow Gwenhwyfar to wed the likes of him.”

  When the time came for the telling, Cunedda had expected trouble from his sons, but he was unprepared for Arthur’s passionate outburst.

  Guilt at the enforced bargain heightening his reaction, he thrust Arthur’s hand aside, then crossed to the table and upended it, scattering dishes and goblets and wine flagons on the floor. His shout of rage filled the room. “Do you think I want to see her wed to such a twisted creature?” His foot kicked at a wine jug, sending it spinning across the room, red wine spewing like spattered blood. “And you.” He pointed at Arthur, his finger quivering. “Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do with my daughter?”

  He met the hostile gaze and held it, his breath coming fast, uneven, rasping in his throat. He groaned, passed a hand over his eyes, bent to right the table, replace the debris of tableware in order to occupy his hands, then said, “It is no easy thing to ride as lord to people who look to you for their safety and well being. Decisions must be made – decisions that are sometimes difficult but must, all the same, be taken.”

  His back to them, Cunedda the Lion Lord of Gwynedd buried his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched and shaking. His sons knew he was weeping. “What could I do when Vortigern demanded it?” he asked simply as he lifted his grey face. “What choice had I, Gwynedd or Gwenhwyfar?”

  “You bargained our sister for land?” Etern cried. “What kind of greed is this?”

  Cunedda aimed a stinging blow at his youngest son’s cheek. He held the palm before his own eyes, staring at the redness, shocked that he could strike so easily. “See how Vortigern sets a son against his father.” His hands dropped, useless, to his side. “Defeat carries a price, son. For Uthr it was death. For us, it would have been the end of Gwynedd. Nor our death, not mine or yours, but Gwynedd’s – her women, her children, her cattle, her crops. He gave me the choice, you see. Gwenhwyfar for Melwas or Gwynedd for Hengest and his Saex, to do with as they will. Is it greed, Etern, to sacrifice one for the many?” Eyes pleading for understanding he added, “I could not lose my land. Not a second time.”

  Silence. What was there to say?

  Etern tried one last protest. “We are strong. Stronger than when we were at Dun Pelidr. We have friends, many warriors on our side. How could he take our land and give it to the Saex? He could not, not now.” He faltered. “Could he?”

  Cunedda placed his two hands on Etern’s shoulders and drew the lad to him in a tight embrace. “He did before, when he sent the Saex to destroy me. They did their job well. But most of them left after the burning and the butchering, left the north to its ghosts. With Gwynedd, it would be a death within life, for they would remain, make her their slave.”

  Arthur, shoulders slumped, offered his hand in submission and acceptance. Cunedda took it and patted the lad’s arm.

  Enniaun, subdued, with nothing more to say, retrieved goblets. Etern fetched fresh wine and passed the flagon round. They seated themselves, dwelt a while on the warm taste of rich red wine.

  “I hoped, prayed, Vortigern would die – Gwenhwyfar even…” Cunedda broke off, appalled. Na, not that! Anything to save his daugh
ter from this monstrous betrothal, anything, but not that.

  “Or Melwas.” Etern spoke with calm menace. “Accidents can happen.”

  His father shook his head. “Think you that has not occurred to me? Na, I would not have murder on our hands; the revenge of the blood feud can soak through generations, can kill more innocents than a ravaging plague.” He shook his head again. “For Melwas’s death the King would take all my sons.”

  There was a longer silence, each thinking his own bitter thoughts.

  At last Enniaun spoke. “My sister will not take kindly to this. Happen, when Melwas is let in on it, he may not want such a fire-tempered woman.” Empty laughter. It was a poor jest.

  Enniaun added, “You ought have kept her safe in Gwynedd, Da, not brought her here.”

  Cunedda toyed with his goblet. “Do you think Vortigern needs my words at this Council? Does he truly need the few men we have brought, to fulfil our annual service within his army? I was ordered here for those things, and to bring Gwenhwyfar for Melwas.”

  Etern sneered, pointed an accusing finger. “So you jump to do as he bids?”

  Dropping the goblet, Cunedda pressed his fingers to his temples. His head throbbed, hooves pounding his brain. Would they not understand? “Aye, I do as the King bids, boy. It took every trick and ounce of experience I had to retain Gwynedd after Uthr’s wasted rebellion. I grovelled at Vortigern’s feet, begged forgiveness, pleaded for Gwynedd to be spared. I have kept that humility and knelt cowed before his every word. To keep Gwynedd safe I will do anything, even give my daughter in marriage. As,” he raised his head silently and looked eye to eye at Arthur, “as the Pendragon would do anything to gain his kingdom.”

  Arthur returned the challenge. He had swallowed his pride to come to Britain and serve under Vortigern, had bitten back anger, ignored whispered insults, followed idiotic orders, for the sake of waiting. Waiting for the time when he was old enough and experienced enough to raise his own host, to cut like sharpened iron through Vortigern’s stinking skull. He nodded once, curtly. “Aye. I would do anything.”