The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  It would not happen again.

  Only one good thing came out of it all – the clearing of the earthwork was abandoned.

  The Anglians later re-used the fortification. Its construction attributed to their skills. Forgotten, as the years and the years passed, were the others who had come and gone, before the settling of the Anglo-Saxons.

  XXVIII

  Glancing through the open window at the sudden shrill of a blackbird, Gwenhwyfar drove her sewing needle into her finger. “Damn the thing!” She flung the material to the floor and sucked at welling blood. She detested sewing. Her stitches never seemed to come out neat or even, the needle was always unthreading or the thread snagging and knotting.

  “Is it so surprising the Pendragon grew tired of you and turned to me? You have the breeding of a sow, Gwenhwyfar of Gwynedd.” Winifred sat working at an elegant tapestry, tossed her insult without bothering to glance up.

  Gwenhwyfar hurled an ill-tempered response. “Better a well bred sow than a half breed runt!”

  Four other young women in the room paused from their work, needles hovering in mid stitch, expressions appalled. No one spoke to the Princess like that and got away with it.

  “You insolent bitch!” Winifred shrieked, her own sewing tumbling to the floor in her indignation.

  “Bitch? It is not I who fill that description.”

  “How dare you!” Springing to her feet, Winifred crossed the small chamber in three quick strides to slap Gwenhwyfar across the cheek.

  With squeaks of alarm the others drew back, holding their sewing to their breasts as if the flimsy material formed some sort of shield. Ceridwen alone came forward, her hand extended in appeal.

  Gwenhwyfar too was standing, a dagger, which normally hung discreetly from her waist, in her hand, its tip pricking at Winifred’s throat. With breathing controlled, her body loose, shoulders bent slightly forward and arms flexed Gwenhwyfar was ready for action; ready to fight, defend, or kill.

  Frightened, Winifred had the sense to move a pace back, a little scream escaping her. “She threatens me! Threatens to kill me! Treason! This is treason – you are all witnesses to it!”

  With a laugh, Gwenhwyfar lowered her weapon, sheathed it and turned away in disgust. “You are pathetic, Winifred. A spoilt, conceited, half breed baggage. Arthur loves me – we are pledged. If you think he feels anything more than a passing fancy to fondle your teats, then you are also a fool.”

  It was enough to tip the fear into fury. Rushing at her, arms whirling, Winifred took Gwenhwyfar by surprise. She staggered, trying to fend off the flailing fists, but Winifred caught hold of her hair, twisted a hank round her hand and pulled while her feet kicked at shin and calf.

  “Stop! Oh, stop!” Ceridwen fluttered around the locked pair, tugging vainly at Gwenhwyfar, trying to pull Winifred off, to stop the fight.

  The Princess, unschooled in fighting, was pummelling anyhow with fist and toe, with no balance to her body or designed co-ordination. Gwenhwyfar, though, had always enjoyed the training for warfare, and had learnt well. Winifred had winded her; she let her blows come, caught her breath, then dropped suddenly to one knee. Winifred lost her balance and toppled forward with a shrill cry. Gwenhwyfar had no need to follow through, for Winifred lay gasping like a landed fish.

  Guards and servants were running in.

  “What is the meaning of this riot?” One commanding voice carried clear above the turmoil, which subsided abruptly as the Queen swept into the chamber. Rowena stood a moment on the threshold surveying the whimpering heap that was her daughter, and Gwenhwyfar on one knee breathing hard. “Is this how women of Gwynedd behave? What is happening here?”

  Nervously, Ceridwen bobbed a curtsy. “There was a difference of opinion, my Lady.”

  Rowena addressed Winifred sharply. “Stop that noise, you cannot be so badly injured.”

  “Mother,” Winifred made no attempt to rise, “she threatened me with her dagger, attacked me.”

  “You probably deserved it. Is this true, Gwenhwyfar? You hold a weapon?”

  Undeterred by the Queen’s austere tone, Gwenhwyfar answered boldly, “I carry a dagger. Who does not?”

  Rowena regarded her with a steady blue gaze. She was a small woman, standing shorter than Gwenhwyfar by a few inches. She was ageing also, no longer the sixteen-year-old beauty who had captured Vortigern. The beauty now was painted on, and the silky blonde hair had paled into streaked silver-grey. She had no figure, for the child she carried swelled her stomach to a great bulge, a thing Vortigern seemed to admire in the hopes that this time, at last, his wife carried a boy that would live. All these years, and still Winifred the only living child.

  Defiant against the hard scrutiny, Gwenhwyfar added, “It was my mother’s weapon. I have carried it since childhood.”

  “Then you will carry it no more. Give it here.” Rowena held out her hand, the fingers puffy and misshapen from pregnancy. “Quickly, girl. I am no common stallholder to stand here arguing.”

  Reluctantly Gwenhwyfar gave her the dagger.

  “You will go to your own chamber. Remain there until I say otherwise.”

  Winifred scowled at her mother. “Is that all the punishment she…”

  Rowena rounded on her. “Be silent!”

  Petulant, the princess obeyed.

  The Queen surveyed the chamber, with an expression of disgust, as if they all carried some foul disease. Then, “Daughter, come with me,” and she swept out, the heavy scent of her perfume lingering in her wake. Winifred, struggling unsteady to her feet, trotted obediently to heel.

  Rowena said nothing more of the matter until later in the afternoon. She sat stitching an altar cloth by the light of a western window, patiently fashioning neat little stitches that steadily expanded this section of the Christ’s crucifixion. It was incongruous, she reflected, that this Roman breed called her father’s Jutes barbarian and savage, yet they thought nothing of this slow, tortured form of death. She sat back, easing a pain in her lower spine. How many weeks more to carry this wretched child? Please God, let it be a living son, and let this be the last! She pointed with her needle at her work and enquired of her daughter, “What think you of it, girl?”

  “Is it difficult to work such small stitching?”

  Rowena sighed in annoyance. “How like your father you are, always answering one question with another.” She picked at a piece of fluff with her fingernail. “You were arguing with Cunedda’s daughter. What about?”

  Winifred found a sudden need to attend to her spindle. “No important matter, a misunderstanding.”

  “I see. Over what?”

  Winifred struggled to sound indifferent. “A man.”

  “A man?” Rowena persisted, honey-sweet. “Which man?”

  “Oh, no man in particular.”

  “It would not, by chance, be the Pendragon?”

  Winifred dropped the spindle and stooped quickly to retrieve the spoilt wool. She forced a laugh. “The Pendragon? Why him?”

  Did her mother know of that night? Those spies he had talked of… she was certain he had lied about them, for if her father had been told, he would not have remained silent on the matter. And yet he and the Pendragon went away, were north of here, fighting the Angli folk.

  Rowena said scathingly, “The entire palace watched as you danced together at the feasting, my girl. And many tongues were set wagging when you both retired to the seclusion of the gardens.”

  Winifred blushed. “I needed air; the wine and heat…”

  Rowena regarded her daughter with a stern eye. “I have no objection to your walking in the gardens with the Pendragon, child. As long as it is only walking that you do.”

  Feigning shock, Winifred exclaimed, “Mother! What more is there to do in a garden?”

  Returning to her tapestry, Rowena sewed some half-dozen stitches. “If you are that naive, child, then it is time we talked of betrothal. There is a chieftain, loyal to my father, who would suit well.”

/>   Winifred felt suddenly afraid. God, no! She lowered her eyes. “You have the wisdom I do not yet possess.”

  Suddenly, like a striking snake, Rowena was on her feet and moving across the room as if she were a lithe girl, not a woman heavy with child. Her palm smacked across her daughter’s face. “You stupid girl!”

  Winifred squeaked, tried to draw back. “Why? What is it I have done?”

  Rowena mimicked her. “What is it I have done? Do you think you can entice the Pendragon by letting him mouth at you as though you were some tavern slut? No, do not deny it – you were watched. Your father and I have men constantly following Arthur – he cannot be trusted. I am ashamed of you, do you hear? Ashamed.” She paced around the room, agitated. “At least, thank God, that is all you allowed him. Stupid, stupid girl, he could have taken matters further.” Rowena stood over her daughter like some goddess of darkness.

  “And now this! Brawling like some street brat. You deserve a whipping for your behaviour.”

  At that Winifred protested. “I deserve a whipping? What of that Gwynedd bitch who dared insult me? What of her?”

  Rowena waved her hand dismissively. “She is of no consequence. It is you I am concerned with.” She returned to her stool, but did not pick up her needle.

  Winifred came to stand behind her mother. “Did you know the Pendragon is in love with her?”

  “Is he?” Rowena kept her voice neutral. This she was not aware of. “And how do you know?”

  Winifred folded her hands before her. “From the way he looks at her, and she at him.” She laid her fingers briefly on her mother’s shoulder, emphasising her point. “Gwenhwyfar said they were pledged.” She moved away to the window so her mother should not see her scheming smile.

  “Nonsense!” Rowena began stitching: the blue here needed particular care. But was it nonsense? Ja, she had noticed Arthur watching Gwenhwyfar, had taken it for a man’s lusting. How strong would that make the Pendragon and Cunedda of Gwynedd? Too strong, dangerously so. Such a betrothal must never be allowed. She unpicked the last stitch, having formed it crooked. But wait – had not her husband said something recently about Gwenhwyfar being a possibility for Melwas? She began sewing, calm again. She must raise that idea again as soon as possible. And find a more suited wife for the Pendragon. She sighed. It would be so much easier to have the awful young man disposed of, but Vortigern had expressly said not. “Too many would use the memory of his name. Na, my beloved, with his incredible talent for rubbing people the wrong way, it will only be a matter of time before he makes himself more enemies than friends. There will be few willing to follow him.”

  “Might not such a pledge cause a troublesome alliance against my father?” Winifred enquired innocently from her window seat. “What if it is not nonsense? What if Cunedda has agreed a match? My father could be placed in great danger should the Pendragon be allowed such a kin alliance.”

  Rowena peered at her stitching; the thread had knotted. Patiently she unravelled it. “She spoke idle fancy.”

  “Happen she did, but what if it was not?” Winifred hurried on. She must seize this opportunity to press her point, catch her mother’s interest. Woden’s breath! If she were to marry this chieftain of her grandsire’s and be found on the wedding night not to be… She swallowed a hard lump. What did they do to women who went to the marriage bed no longer maiden? “It would be more prudent for Arthur to betroth a woman of my father’s choosing; someone with whom he could be watched more easily.”

  “I would assume your father has already thought of that.”

  Winifred ducked her head, feigning modesty. “The Pendragon is an arrogant, toad-spawned dog-turd, but for my father I would wed with him.”

  Rowena continued sewing, a small smile touching the corners of her mouth. This sudden idea would have nothing to do with that episode in the palace gardens, by chance? Thank the God her husband’s spies always reported to her first whenever her daughter was concerned. Vortigern would have had the girl flayed if he knew half the things she did. Foolish rosebud! That was no way to catch a man. You must dig a hole, hide the net, lure him forward and let him fall headlong in; not allow him to see the trap dangling.

  At least the Pendragon had held the sense not to pluck this particular flower. There were one or two young men who had taken liberties with her daughter. She, the Queen, had found it necessary to dispose of them without fuss. It was time the child was wed. But to the Pendragon?

  Rowena never had discovered which girl Arthur had taken to his bed on that feasting night. There had been one – her servants had told of a virgin’s blood on the sheets and the cling of perfume. Rowena liked to know all that went on – curse that drunken fool set to watch the Pendragon’s chamber. She had not made him suffer enough for his neglect; slitting his throat had been over-quick, punishment ought to have been longer drawn out. She smiled, amused. Mayhap the Romans had the right attitude to punishment after all. Then another thought, alarming. Could the girl have been Gwenhwyfar? No, unlikely.

  The Pendragon for Winifred? The queen was warming to the idea. Vortigern was ageing, her father, Hengest, not yet in a safe position to make a bid for power, and he too was ageing. This child she bore, what if that too died or was a girl? Ja, there could be possibilities if Winifred were to wed Arthur. It was good to have a choice of roads to reach the same destination.

  She said, “I will speak to your father about it.”

  Considering it prudent not to press the matter, Winifred asked permission to retire. She turned back at the door.

  “That dagger, Gwenhwyfar’s. Can I have it?”

  Rowena pointed vaguely to a table on the far side of the room. “It is over there. Take the thing – I have no use for it.”

  Well pleased with herself, Winifred found the dagger and holding it clasped in both hands, left the room, a thought virulent in her mind. Spurn me, Pendragon? I told you, I always get my way. And as for you, Gwenhwyfar…

  She held the dagger to the light, admiring its fine craftsmanship, and walked along the corridor with a triumphant swagger. You can be flower maiden at our wedding!

  July 453

  XXIX

  Vortimer was the King’s eldest son by his first marriage, his brother, Catigern, two years younger. Father and sons hated the sight of each other. Leaning across the wooden table, Vortimer offered his guest more wine, though he was already quite drunk.

  Arthur accepted, holding his tankard out a little unsteadily. This endless patrolling, the pretence at keeping the Saex behind a hypothetical border sickened him. The fighting these last weeks had been sporadic – skirmishes only, nothing substantial. Icel had entrenched himself this far south, and here he would stay.

  At least Icel was contained to the western edge of this great bulge of flat fenlands; but there would be no hope of salvation, of retrieving what was lost, unless Vortigern gave orders for a combined force to march against him – and that he would never do. The King had not the funds, nor the guts, to unite his own British. Too easily could such a hosting turn against him. The mood Arthur was in this night, it would not take much to encourage him to lead that force either. Good men had died in these pointless skirmishes, too many men to name. Their faces swam before Arthur’s blurred vision; he raised his tankard in salute and drank in their memory.

  “When are we going to drive this scum back to the sea where it washed in from?” he demanded venomously, crashing his drained tankard down.

  Again, saying nothing, Vortimer filled the tankard. With the passing of the years he was losing patience. Would his father never die, leave the way open for his son to salvage what he could without resorting to taking the throne by force? Vortimer’s dark hair had long since turned grizzled and his eyes wore a permanent rim of red around sunken hollows. He was no longer a young man, fit and full of enthusiasm. “We cannot attack as you advocate, Arthur, we have not the men.” How often had he made that self-same reply to Arthur, to his brother. To himself.

  For
answer, Arthur made a crude noise through his lips. “And the King does not intend to muster enough British men.”

  “My brother, we are here for a matter of importance,” said Catigern impatiently. “Is it not time we discussed that, not this same, endless quest?” Like Arthur, he took little pleasure in pointless action. Allowing the Pendragon to drink himself senseless this night seemed yet another waste of time. “We have talked around every other subject imaginable. Our matter must be raised now, brother.” He looked meaningfully towards Arthur, who had the glazed look of one ready to sleep off excess liquor.

  “What matter?” Arthur rose unsteadily to his feet, looking from one brother to the other. “Whatever, it must wait – I am for my bed.” The room spun, and clumsily, with a surprised, distracted expression, Arthur sat down again.

  “A thing of some delicacy,” began Vortimer, uncertain how to broach the subject. He liked Arthur, admired him as a soldier and as a friend, though their ideas on warfare were very different. He had been amazed when the raw youth presented himself at court for duty with the army. Amazed but pleased, for Arthur was a useful man to have at your shoulder.

  Vortimer took a breath and decided to tackle the problem head on. “From our spies we know much of our father’s planning – and the bitch’s scheming.”

  Belching, Arthur examined the flagons of wine, seeming surprised that all were nigh on empty.

  “Will you listen, man?” Vortimer thumped the tabletop in frustration.

  Catigern shook his head. “We should have talked of this earlier; he is too damned drunk now to listen!”

  “I am not drunk, just bloody tired!” Arthur’s words slurred together, he spoke part truth: it had been a long day in the saddle, with nothing to show for it come evening.

  Standing behind the Pendragon, leaning over his shoulder, Catigern spoke urgently, with more force. “We have received word that Rowena is to arrange Winifred’s marriage.”