The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur tapped a rhythmical beat on the table with his fingers, grinning inanely. “Well, good for her.” He turned his head to face Catigern. “Do I know the unlucky bastard?”

  Catigern put a hand to his head and groaned. “Will you be serious?”

  His brother added, “Vortigern’s daughter is to marry with a Jute chieftain – a thegn, I think the word is. One of Hengest’s sworn men.”

  Arthur sat grinning happily. “Then we might be rid of her? Hooray for that!”

  “God’s truth! Na, we shall not be rid of her. There will be yet more Saex settling their feet over the door sill.” Vortimer, across the table from Catigern, leaned closer to Arthur like a spider lurking hidden from a hovering fly. “Unless Rowena’s babe is a boy, Winifred is the only child of the union. On Vortigern’s death the Saex – her mother, her grandsire and, if this marriage goes ahead, her husband – will claim all on her behalf. Do you not see? That Saex rabble will claim the British throne!”

  “Then we had best hope for a boy to oust the princess. Mind, even then the brat will be half Saex won’t it.” Arthur said.

  “Or we can arrange some alternative marriage, Arthur, give Vortigern a better offer. One it would be impolitic for him to refuse. One that would cut Winifred off from her Saex kindred.”

  The craving for sleep taking hold, Arthur nodded slow agreement, wagged a ponderous finger. “Good idea. Who do you have in mind?”

  Catigern let out the line, dangling the bait lower. “There is one man who could use Winifred’s parentage to his own advantage and benefit from a handsome dowry.”

  Vortimer added, “My brother and I are no longer young men. We may not live to see the day when our father falls. A sorry fact, but it must be faced head on.”

  Catigern nodded, “If any man aside from ourselves is to take the kingdom, we would like that man to be you, Arthur. You have a claim through Uthr.”

  “You could add to that claim by wedding a wealthy heiress.”

  They stared solemnly, at Arthur. He looked back, one to the other, a sickening horror creeping over him.

  “You are not serious! Oh na!” He was on his feet, backing away, hands upraised. “Blood of the Bull, after all your ravings against Rowena you have the nerve to foist her bloody daughter on me? Are you out of your minds? Think again. No. Good night to you.”

  He strode to the door and flung it open. Vortimer said with quiet menace, “If you refuse this, Arthur, then you are no friend or,” he paused for emphasis, “ally.”

  Arthur rounded on him, the blur of drink quite gone. “Do you think I fear you, Vortimer? You cannot threaten me. I have allied myself with you because it suits my purpose. My purpose, not yours. I could as easily stand with others.”

  “And end up like your father?” Catigern cut in. “Hacked to pieces on the battlefield?” This was going badly. Pausing for breath, he continued, treading softer, “This has been no light matter for us either. You – we – have no choice, you must see that.”

  “Which one of you dredged up the stinking idea?” Arthur glared at the two men.

  Catigern hooked a stool forward with a foot. “It was suggested to us. We have thought upon it some days now.”

  Arthur sneered. “Suggested? By whom?”

  Trying to evade the question, Vortimer said lightly, “No one of importance.”

  “By whom?”

  “Damn it, Arthur! We had word that Rowena is to arrange a marriage for her daughter. She has suggested two possibilities to her husband. This Saex thegn or… “

  “Or?”

  “You.”

  Arthur laughed, punched the wall with his fist, bellowed, “And you, like the two fools you are, have neatly pushed me into her snare.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “It is a good arrangement.”

  “Good?” Arthur stamped back to the table. “Who for? Me? Rowena and Vortigern? Winifred?” He kicked a stool aside, sending it half way across the room. No one made a move to retrieve it.

  Vortimer challenged; “Have you another in mind then? A woman who could bring you as much as Winifred?”

  Arthur opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. Defeated, he leant on the table, head bowed.

  “Well, have you?” Catigern repeated his brother’s question.

  The Pendragon looked up and said quickly, stubbornly, “As it happens, aye, I have.”

  He gave a long, slow sigh. He fetched the stool, righted it and sat down, toying with an empty tankard. His palms were sweating. “Na, there is no one. Not now.”

  Strange, he had not thought of Gwenhwyfar these past weeks. Death, often only a spear’s length away, allowed no time for thinking. His mind slid back to the memory of her. Mithras, he still wanted her for his own, but he could not have her. What was it he had said to Cunedda about obtaining the wealth to buy his horses – that he might as well marry with Winifred? He groaned and put his head in his hands. It had been a jest, but the listening gods had obviously taken it seriously.

  “Get it done quickly then. Before I change my mind. Only I tell you this,” he stood up, the stool’s legs scraping on the stone floor, “I will take her as wife in name. Nothing more.”

  Relieved that the matter had worked out easier than he had expected, Vortimer put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We ask nothing more.”

  Catigern rubbed his hands together. “At least,” he said with forced jocularity, “you will have a virgin bride.”

  Arthur stared at him for some moments before bursting into laughter.

  As he left the room Vortimer and his brother exchanged puzzled glances. To what reason the laughter, they had no idea.

  August 453

  XXX

  Camulodunum wine was of poor quality, but Arthur cared little about the taste; it was the effect he chased, and the stuff packed enough punch to remain hammering in his head this sun shining day. He was wallowing in a temperamental mood, ready to growl at anyone who crossed his path. Already by mid morning he had argued with Cei over some minor matter, had found his dog limping from a cut paw, and now faced an audience with Vortigern to receive orders that would probably conflict with common sense. The rest of the day did not bode well.

  The town was untouched by the Anglian uprising, though its inhabitants remained badly shaken, demanding protection and assurances of future safety. Life in this damp, windswept corner, such as it was, was slowly returning to normal – or as normal as it could be with the King in residence and his daughter about to join him.

  For Vortigern, each conflict was a greater headache. His British army awaited payment, and Hengest’s Jute mercenaries also sought payment for their services, their demands growing daily louder. To pay them Vortigern needed to collect taxes, and those same men who demanded protection consistently avoided the paying of taxes – so the army grumbled, Hengest grumbled and the civilians grumbled. God’s eyes, the thing went round and round in a never-ending circle!

  Every way he turned, he encountered problems. Problems with the economy, and with the threat of rebellion. The thing was spiralling out of control, like a dropped spindle twisting and jerking, knotting the thread, spoiling the wool. More and more men were coming to join Hengest, settling land that was not theirs for the taking. The British were openly quarrelling with each other and with himself, their king – and the Pendragon was gleefully stirring the dissent. Damn him to hell!

  Melwas, now, he trusted implicitly, for his nephew was ambitious but not greedy. Vortigern had made it clear that he would do well out of loyal service to his king. The Summer Land, which had once been Uthr’s, was now under Melwas’s governorship, and he had the recent given promise of a prized bride. Another trouble: the Pendragon and Melwas fought like cat and dog, their bickering growing louder with each setting sun. Vortigern groaned. He wanted this interview as little as did the Pendragon.

  It was unfortunate that at the door of Vortigern’s chamber, Arthur encountered Melwas. The Pendragon stood his ground before the narrow do
orway, in no mood for politeness.

  Melwas had few good traits. A sour life had left its mark on his sallow, pockmarked skin and scowling features. He had few enjoyments, save women and fighting.

  Disdainfully he looked Arthur up and down, his nostrils wrinkling as if the man gave off some foul odour.

  “So you’re back,” Arthur said cynically. “Some people are well content to be given the comfortable tasks while the rest of us are left with the men’s work.”

  Melwas stood squarely before the door. “You ought to thank me, Pendragon – I have this very hour delivered your future wife to her father.” He thrust his face closer. “There are none, save myself, the King would entrust with her safekeeping.”

  Arthur laughed. “Happen he can trust you for escort, but it seems he trusts me more in the longer term as her husband.”

  Melwas jeered. “Trust you? This marriage tethers you.” He raised his arm to push Arthur aside. “Out of my way, Pendragon; I have work to see to while you dally over the niceties of wedding plans.”

  “Dare to raise a hand to me, whoreson, and I will remove it from your arm.” Arthur spoke soft, almost casually, his voice the more menacing for its total lack of venom. All he needed was an excuse, and this fat-bellied toad would be lying dead.

  They loathed each other, these two men. The one corpulent, loose-jowled and with the strength and stamina of a bull; the other tall and lean with dark hair curling almost to his shoulders, and dark hawk eyes that missed nothing. Each more than ready to kill the other.

  It was Melwas’s instinctive desire to draw his sword and butcher this arrogant whelp here and now, get the thing finished, but something made him hesitate, some warning that Arthur’s words were no idle boast. He did not want a fight on Arthur’s terms, so he said, “I doubt our king would appreciate blood spilt on his threshold. Let me pass.” He pushed Arthur aside and walked away.

  Their paths had crossed only a few times these recent months. As fate often wove the way of things, they were to meet as many times in as many days. Outside Vortigern’s chamber as Arthur was entering, then the following day, after yet another lecture from Vortigern on not harassing the more peaceful English settlers to the east of Icel’s taken boundaries.

  By early afternoon, Arthur’s mood was far worse than the one of the morning. His head throbbed, his body felt strained and taut.

  Cei was not sympathetic. “You never learn. Stay away from the drink, and its after effects will stay away from you.” He had laughed at Arthur’s coarse reply.

  The horses were waiting, the men ready for afternoon patrol. Flies were irritating the animals, who were stamping hooves, kicking at their tender bellies and tossing their heads. The heat, after the cold earlier in the month, had come back with a vengeance.

  Eira, Arthur’s grey stallion, matched his master’s temper, laying his ears back and snapping at Cei’s chestnut. “Another worthless patrol to while away what remains of a wasted day,” Arthur complained as he gave the signal for his men to move off. He touched Eira’s flank lightly with his heel and the stallion leapt forward, eager to be away from the hovering insects. Arthur restrained him with a firm hand on the rein, keeping him at a dancing walk. The twin-towered, arched exit loomed ahead; a group of mounted officers burst from the right at a canter, intending to reach the narrow gate first.

  Arthur swore as Eira shied, hurtling with a squeal to the left and colliding with Cei, whose stallion reared. Eira bounded forward, his head down, bucking. Somehow, Arthur managed to get his hand up and bring him to a halt, head snaking, nostrils snorting.

  Melwas sat his mount watching, amused. “That horse will kill someone before the year is out,” adding in an aside to another officer, “with any luck, its rider.”

  Arthur glared, ready to reply with some colourful oath. Cei urged his chestnut forward, caught Arthur’s arm. “Leave it. You know he goads on purpose. It would not be seemly to fight here.” He nodded over his shoulder, back to where Vortigern had appeared, watching from a window.

  Wheeling Eira to rejoin his turma, Arthur said, “Let the King’s favourite ride through first – we need the air cleared of this stench.”

  Melwas caught the faint chuckle of amusement from Arthur’s men, though he had not heard the words.

  Sweeping a hand forward with elaborate politeness, Arthur indicated the other man should proceed. The instant Melwas had his back to him, made an obscene gesture. His men laughed.

  Their paths crossed again within the span of another two days.

  The patrols, as Arthur had predicted, were proving a waste of time. Ride in fast, burn the Saex in their hovels, that was the answer; not this senseless riding round and round chasing shadows. Then there were at least two British villas worth checking. Arthur and his men had found the owner of one a week since, footsore, bleeding and near death. He had stumbled through the darkness avoiding the rowdy groups of Saex and made his way south to the British. He died an hour after reaching sanctuary, having told of how his family had been dragged from their hiding place and slaughtered; he had escaped because he was busy burying his massed wealth. “Out in the field beyond the granary wall I put it,” he coughed, spitting flecks of blood. “Silver salvers, gold, jewels…” Arthur had laid the man to rest. Happen there’d be a chance to go looking for it one day.

  Hot and sweating, grimy and dry-throated returning from patrol, Arthur made his way to the bathhouse with Cei. The place was crowded with like minded men thankful to cleanse their bodies of the day’s work and heat. A storm was brewing, they agreed, though the black clouds were not yet visible. Come nightfall, rain and thunder would be upon them. What was drearier – riding patrol in dusty heat or lashing rain?

  The bathhouse provided an opportunity to relax, to talk with friends and take life at an easier pace for a while. Arthur dozed in the steam of the hot room, let the dirt trickle from him with the opening of pores and sweating skin. Rousing himself, he plunged into the pool of the frigidarium, its coldness taking his breath away. He swam energetically, ignoring the scream of protest from his hot skin, the water sluicing away tiredness with the grime. He swam another width then heaved himself from the pool with a grunt of satisfaction. Taking a towel from a slave he rubbed himself vigorously until his body tingled refreshingly clean. Casting the towel down, he made for the changing rooms, waving a greeting to Cei, still reclining in the steam room and embarking on what promised to be an easy win at dice.

  Whistling some soldier’s tune, Arthur reached for his clothes. A sudden thump in the small of his back sent him reeling, gasping for air. His hands struggled for a hold, but he fell, his head striking sharply against the corner of the wooden bench. Men crowded round, lifting him from the floor. As their faces and the room spun before his eyes, Arthur focused on one in particular. Melwas.

  The man feigned a concerned expression, asked if Arthur was all right, said something about the effect of strong wine.

  Pushing the helpers aside, Arthur scrambled to his feet. “You punched me, you bastard whoreson!”

  Melwas raised his hands in innocent surprise. “I have just this moment entered the building.”

  Another voice. “You lie, Melwas. I saw you.”

  The room fell silent, eyes turning to the speaker who stepped forward from the entrance. Etern pushed his way through the crowd to face Vortigern’s nephew, the favoured one.

  “So Gwynedd has pulled out already, eh?” Melwas sneered. “Had enough? Can’t take hard work?”

  Etern folded his arms and leant against a pillar, nodded a greeting to Arthur. “On the contrary, we have cleared our allotted area to the north; all is settled, quiet and under control. We have served our required time and now return to Londinium to collect my sister and cousin before going home.”

  A smirk. “Gwenhwyfar will not be leaving Londinium.”

  “Will she not? We shall see.” Etern shifted his weight to the other leg, his gaze never leaving Melwas’s face. “I followed you in,” he said. “I wat
ched as you passed behind Arthur. Saw your fist strike him.”

  Melwas turned a blotched, angry pink, his eyes narrowed, lips thin and colourless. “I would expect you to side with the Pendragon, Etern of Gwynedd,” he snarled. “Traitors’ dung clings.”

  Arthur lunged forward, but someone grabbed his arm and hauled him back. Melwas was facing Etern, who stood relaxed, casual, arms still folded, wearing an easy smile.

  “You regard us from Gwynedd as traitors then, Melwas?”

  “The whole warren is infested with them. It needs smoking, every last one cleansed from its lair, the Pendragon here along with the rest.” Melwas gestured in Arthur’s direction, but directed his accusation at Etern.

  Shrugging off the arm that held him, Arthur stepped forward to stand beside Cunedda’s son. “Even Gwenhwyfar?” he asked, his voice so low only those nearest caught the words.

  Melwas leered. “The moment I have her in my bed she will be too busy satisfying my needs to draw breath for Gwynedd. With her belly full, she will have no time for thoughts.”

  Etern smiled lazily. “I should think my sister will have something to say on that score.”

  “Your sister will not be permitted her say. She is mine for bedding and breeding.”

  Arthur could listen to no more. “You bastard!” He flung the words as his fist came up, striking Melwas on the jaw.

  Staggering, Melwas recovered his balance and brought a dagger to hand, bearing down on Arthur, who belatedly realised his lack of clothing and weapon. He leapt back, arching his unprotected body away from the swooping blade.

  It all happened so swiftly. Etern lunged forward, grabbing at the sleeve of Melwas’s tunic, dragging him to one side, away from Arthur. Melwas roared with anger and swung in the direction he was pulled, stabbing with the blade.

  Etern clung to the woven cloth, stubbornly refusing to let go as he sank to his knees, aware of some dull ache in his chest. He coughed, spewing blood from his mouth, and fell slowly forward, ripping the tunic with his hand.

  They stood stunned, frozen in disbelief as the life flowed from Etern, spreading in a grotesque dark puddle across the mosaic tiles.