Melwas clutched his cloak to him, away from the blood. He took in the hostile silence, dropped the dagger, sending it clattering to the floor. He fled, leaping over the sprawled body, running for the door. No one followed.
Arthur bent to Etern, turned him over, wiped the frothy blood from his blue-tinged lips, closed the eyes that stared in questioning surprise. He felt nothing, only a solid wedge of loss, a knot of desperate bereavement.
Tears spilt unchecked from his eyes, though whether he wept for Etern or Gwenhwyfar he would never know.
XXXI
The purple malevolence of storm darkness was gathering in the northern sky, louring down into the western night-cluster of violent red, sunset-tinged, cloud. Sitting alone in her chamber, Gwenhwyfar aimlessly combed out the tangles in her hair, watching fascinated as the storm loomed closer above the reds and greys of Londinium’s jumbled rooftops. A streak of lightning ripped across the blackness, followed by the boom of thunder. She sighed: there would not be much sleep if that was going to be trumpeting all night. Turning at a sound in the doorway, she smiled a greeting as Ceridwen entered. “Any news?”
The girl dropped the packages she was clutching on a couch and ran her hand through wind-tousled hair. Drops of water spattering the shoulders of her cloak scattered as she removed it and shook away the damp. “It’s starting to rain, I got back just in time.” She sat down and began to remove her boots, replacing them with softer house shoes. She leant forward, selected one of the packages and tossed it to Gwenhwyfar. “A present.”
Catching it and eagerly unwrapping the folded cloth, Gwenhwyfar said, “You ought not go treating other people, my lass, but thank you all the same.” She discovered a new comb, fine carved from elephant ivory, and held it beside her old one with its broken teeth. “This,” she said, moving across to give Ceridwen a kiss of thanks, “I needed.”
A twelvemonth younger than Gwenhwyfar, Ceridwen was a slight girl with fine features and a fragility of build that belied her strength. She had been a happy child, though timid, and was now a contented young woman eager to please and serve her cousin as friend and companion. She displayed her other purchases: a roll of silk and a small wooden bird, carved so delicately that it seemed it might fly away if released from her hand.
Admiring the things, Gwenhwyfar asked again, “And is there any news?”
Ceridwen ignored the question; instead she fetched her own comb and stood to tend her damp, ruffled hair. Gwenhwyfar playfully pushed her towards the bed, tickling her ribs. “Tell me, you wretch.”
Laughing, Ceridwen fended her cousin off, calling pax. “You did not want to know of the Queen yesterday when I told you she was in labour.”
“That was yesterday,” Gwenhwyfar retorted.
Eager for the chance at her own teasing, Ceridwen adjusted her rumpled clothing and sat forward on the edge of the bed.
“You ought have come shopping with me, the market was full of the news.”
Exasperated, Gwenhwyfar threatened more tickling. “If you don’t tell me…”
Ceridwen laughed. “Apparently she’s well after the birthing.”
Gwenhwyfar buffeted her cousin with a pillow. “I don’t give a Picti curse for the Queen! The babe, Ceridwen, the babe?”
“Oh, the babe…” Ceridwen feigned deliberate misunderstanding. “You are interested in babies of a sudden?”
The pillow thwacked harder, amid a splutter of giggles from Ceridwen and a burst of feathers as the thing split. Giving in, she announced, “The Queen gave birth some hours past to a fine healthy boy.”
“What!” Gwenhwyfar leapt to her feet, a swirl of feathers drifting around her like a blizzard. “A boy! Good God!”
“I thought you would be pleased,” Ceridwen said sarcastically, drawing her knees up to her chest.
Gwenhwyfar strolled to the window, hands joined, fingers on lips. After all these years the King’s Saex wife had given him a living son. The window rattled with a gust of storm wind, the fragile glass quivering. Another flash of lightning, illuminating the lurid sky, and a crash of thunder. Outside, in the bedraggled gardens, the trees and bushes tossed under the assault of wind and rain. A slate from the roof tumbled past this first-floor window and crashed to the ground. Another gust caught the casement, the frail wood shuddering. Gwenhwyfar put her hand on the catch, intending to pull it more firmly shut. Lightning lit the British patrol guard struggling along the outer wall-walk that surrounded the palace, his hooded cloak pulled tight around his ears, the rain lashing his back. What did he think of this babe, then? The same thoughts that ran through Gwenhwyfar’s mind, that must be in the minds of all who hated Vortigern? That a half breed Saex son might become king?
The wind gusted again, sending a swirl of leaves and twigs high into the sky, caught with a thud of anger at the window, ripping the catch from the rotten frame. The casement swung wide, two panes of glass shattering. Rain and the ice bite of the gale howled like a charging war host into the room.
Gwenhwyfar swore as the catch ripped her hand and the sharp edges of glass splintered.
Glancing up startled, Ceridwen saw Gwenhwyfar’s hair blown in a great wild mass, the faded tapestries lifting from the walls; heard the wind rush through the room, the cry of the storm as it invaded the warmth and safety, breaching the defences. Gwenhwyfar gasped as blood dripped from her hand. Ceridwen jumped from the bed and, grabbing a cloth, made to wrap it round the jagged oozing gash running across her cousin’s palm.
Gwenhwyfar stared at the blood drip, dripping on the tiles at her feet. The wind moaned in her ears; the room was spinning, her head swimming with the noise and whirl of confusion. She sank to the floor, her skin chalk white, lips tinged blue.
Running to the door Ceridwen shouted for help, ran back to Gwenhwyfar, frightened. Gwenhwyfar never fainted, never acted so strange. She patted her cousin’s cold, clammy cheeks, calling her name.
Trembling, Gwenhwyfar responded, her senses floating in a misty profusion of semi-reality. She clutched at the younger girl, mouthed something, the words refusing to come, spinning and spinning around in her head, catching in her dry throat. There was blood on the floor, running down her arm, staining tiles and gown, smeared across Ceridwen’s cheek. Gwenhwyfar screamed, a long, unending howl of grief. She had seen Death revealed beneath his leering mask.
She was being lifted, carried. Voices, people clustering and flustering. Her head and hand throbbed. Her body ached. “Please go away.” Did they? Or did she drift into the darkness of that other world, where reality becomes nothing and dreams leapt alive?
Thunder grumbled and the wind rattled at firmly closed shutters. Shadows from the two lamps leapt and danced, stirred by creeping draughts. Gwenhwyfar woke, felt a weight heavy at her feet that shifted as she moved. Ceridwen, sprawled asleep across the end of the bed. What had happened? For an anxious moment, Gwenhwyfar could not recall.
Ceridwen sat up, stiff from the awkward angle that she had slept in. Her hand tingled as it came to life. “Gwen? I have been so worried.”
Fumbling for her cousin’s hand, Gwenhwyfar drew her close with an urgent need to hold tight to something solid. Tears flowed, softly at first, then uncontrollably.
“Gwen, what’s wrong?” Ceridwen felt more frightened than ever she remembered. This was not like Gwenhwyfar. She was strong, nothing frightened her. Gwenhwyfar never cried. Ceridwen shuffled up the bed, gathered her cousin close, rocking her as if she were an infant. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”
Gwenhwyfar gulped, steadied her breath and gathered her confused thoughts. “I saw blood.” Her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
Ceridwen shook her head, not understanding. “But you are not afeared of blood, even your own.”
Hugging herself, Gwenhwyfar tried to control the shaking, the great trembling that shuddered through her cold body. “Not my blood!” Her eyes were staring, frightened and shocked. “I saw a man’s blood spreading on a tiled floor.”
Ceridwen’s e
yes were puzzled. “Which man? Who? A brother, your father?”
Arthur? The thought roared like a charging boar into Gwenhwyfar’s mind. Not Arthur! Please, not Arthur! Aloud, “I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know!”
XXXII
Rainwater dripping from Cunedda’s sodden cloak collected beneath his boots and drained into a missing square of the tessellated flooring. Gwenhwyfar watched the spreading puddle, light-headed and distant, as if she were floating with the sensation of over much drink. What was it Da said? Etern dead? Etern was not dead, she had seen him alive and laughing; he had hugged her, kissed her before riding north with Da to fight the Saex. There was no sense in all this. Etern could not be dead.
Morning spread dismal and gloomy beyond the shuttered windows. Rain beat against the patched glass, with squalls of wind squirming through cracks beneath doors and windows, rustling among the hanging tapestries and flaring the flames of the braziers, everything damp and miserable. At any moment Etern would come swaggering through the door with a cheery wave of his hand, a laugh on his face and a careless tossed greeting as if he had never been away.
One little thought kept ticking and ticking in Gwenhwyfar’s mind: it was not Arthur. Thank the gods it was not Arthur! The scream was there, hovering and wheedling closer to the surface. It was not Arthur. It was not Arthur, God damn it, it was her brother, her beloved brother! But she could only think of how it was not Arthur. What was wrong with her?
Cunedda was holding her firmly by the shoulders, saying again all he had just said, for he too could not believe it, needed to speak the words to hear the truth. “Melwas murdered my son, your brother. He was intending to strike at Arthur, but Etern deflected the thrust, took the blade through his chest.”
Gwenhwyfar wanted to say, “I know, I saw it,” but it had been her own blood she had seen, blood from her cut hand. The wind had broken the glass, and the glass had gashed her hand. Her blood, not Etern’s. Hers. She stood mute, quite still, staring at that incongruous puddle of muddy rainwater beneath Cunedda’s boots. Only the water was blood, spreading ghastly red.
Cunedda felt muddled and dizzy, exhausted. It had been a long, fast ride. No time to stop for rest, for food or drink. Riding fast through the night, with the rain beating in his face; the horses feared of the thunder, the bursts of lightning. Etern, his youngest son! His son, dead! All his children had struggled through the infections and accidents of childhood. Now the sons were grown and at their father’s side. To a soldier, death followed constant at heel, like an unwelcome shadow; to die in battle could be accepted, expected. Typiaunan had died defending his territory and family – aye, though the killing had come at the hand of murderers. But to be stabbed by a dull blade in some bathhouse brawl? What sense was there in such a wicked death?
Cunedda said something else, had to say it twice over. Gwenhwyfar lifted her gaze, stared at him as though he were talking gibberish. Melwas? Coming for her – why should he do that? What had she to do with Melwas, the man who had killed her brother? She pressed her hands to her ears and turned away, shaking her head, almost losing hold of reality. Cunedda stopped her walking away, his hands on her arms, shaking her.
“Daughter, you must listen to me, must listen well! You are in danger. I want you to remain in this room while I arrange our leaving.”
Gwenhwyfar broke free of his grasp, confused, uncertain. What was happening?
Her father limped to a chair, groaned as he sat. Just a few minutes’ rest, just a moment to get his breath, to think. A cold numbness suffused his exhausted body. This day he felt his age, felt the ache of every battle scar. Enniaun was seeing to the horses; he could take a minute to rest. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. Na, he could not, there were things that must be done.
Melwas had fled Camulodunum, could already be here in Londinium, could have dared come for Gwenhwyfar. Ah, but if he were to show his face, Cunedda would run him through, strangle him with his bare hands, take a rope and… Talk sense, man! Revenge would come in its own time. For now, Gwenhwyfar must be made safe. If she fell into that murdering bastard’s hands there would be little Cunedda could do to stop this abominable marriage – and over the smouldering ruins of Gwynedd’s destruction, never would he allow that now. The agreement was finished, ended. The bloodprice of grieving kin demanded it so.
Over and over on that mad ride through swollen rivers, cloying mud and biting wind, Cunedda had cursed himself. He should never have agreed to Vortigern’s demands, never have come to Londinium.
“Da?” Gwenhwyfar said, standing forlorn and shattered, willing that some form of sense would return. Night had its own terrors, but the coming of day was bringing no comfort. She spread her hands, imploring. “I do not understand any of this.” She ran her uninjured hand through her hair, clutching at its wild looseness, and stared hopelessly at the sagging man before her with a sudden feeling of standing on the edge of nothing, hovering between the solid and the void. Blackness beckoned, calling, pulling her forward. Gwenhwyfar wanted to scream, to pull back, but the emptiness lured her nearer; it would only need one step more.
Cunedda watched his daughter’s spirit staring blind and scared through the dark, empty hollows of her anguished eyes. He should have told her years past, in the security of her own home; not here, not like this. “I have done you a great wrong, daughter. At the time I had no choice. Happen I ought to have sought harder for an alternative. Can you ever forgive me?”
He took her cold hands and began chafing away the numbness with his own stiffening fingers.
His voice seemed to come from a great distance. She answered flatly, “Forgive you for what, Da?” Her eyes appealed for help as her mind fought to accept this crazed, whirlpool reality.
Still holding her hand, Cunedda told her in a quick breath, of the betrothal with Melwas. Gwenhwyfar listened, the words sounding as unreal as some weird harper’s tale. She was shaking her head, backing away. Her safe, comfortable world was being torn apart, ripped to shreds by claws and teeth, fragmenting, dissolving. Etern was dead, and she was to marry with the man who had murdered him? This was surely some waking dream, a wizard’s trickery!
She sank to the floor, her knees weak as that blackness brought her nearer the brink of madness. Her father knelt with her and cradled her to him. The cold and wet made his teeth chatter.
“I have done all I could, save murder.” He choked back a sob, abandoned the effort to contain his grief, and let the anguish flood from him, his tears mingling with those of his daughter. “By all the pity of the Gods!” he cried. “Was there no other way to stop this thing? Did I need to sacrifice my son for my daughter?”
They sat for a while together, holding each other for comfort. Then through the pain came the spear-lunge of sudden anger. Gwenhwyfar recoiled from her father. “Do you think I would have agreed to this obscenity?” Spirit and pride jerked her back from despair into awareness. “I would destroy myself rather than go to such a marriage bed!”
“And destroy Gwynedd in doing so?” Cunedda spoke more sharply than he intended.
“It is my right to refuse.” She looked like a wild thing, hair unbound, eyes flashing, her teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. “It is my right to have a say in my marriage. By British law, my right!”
The reply was harsh, Cunedda’s responding anger fuelled by her own. Anger breeds anger. “You forget – Vortigern rules by Roman law.”
She wanted to hit him, hit something. To draw her dagger from her belt and plunge it into somebody. Vortigern, Melwas; Etern for being dead. Arthur for being alive. Only she had no dagger. The bitch queen had it. The anger vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving a hollow loss of despair. She tried desperately not to cry.
Cunedda sighed, a drawn-out, helpless sound. “I had little choice, Gwen,” He limped towards her and enfolded her with his lion paws. “I am sorry, lass.”
“What can we do?” She buried her face in his chest, refusing to let the tears come. After a while she ventured a
look at him.
Though his face usually had a sternness that made even the strongest quail, she knew the tenderness that underlay the necessary façade of a strong leader. But here was a strange expression, never seen before: anxiety and fear.
Cunedda forced a smile. “Ah, lass.” He moved to a stool and seated himself slowly, his aches progressing into painful stiffness. He looked at his strong, brown hands, the palms callused from reins and weapons. “Our hands are tied by Vortigern’s whims and fancies.” He scowled. “It’s time to return to Gwynedd. My place is in my own land, not dancing at Vortigern’s heels. From this time forward, let him see to his own.” He held out his arms, inviting her into his embrace. She responded, hugging him close. Over the years, his daughter had given cause for anger, laughter or shed tears. The most tiresome of children, but held more dear than any fortune in gold or jewels. He stroked her hair back from her forehead, tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “You are more precious to me than Gwynedd, child.”
She gave a hesitant smile. “Nothing is more precious than Gwynedd, Da. We are mere bystanders in her history. Gwynedd is in her infancy; she will remain great long after our bodies have turned to dust. One day she will breed princes and great kings to be feared and loved throughout all Britain. Gwynedd shall make the laws, fight the battles and keep the peace.” Gwenhwyfar broadened her smile, gaining courage. “I would like to think we had some small part in the moulding of her proud future.” She tightened her grasp around her father’s waist, urgently needing his rock-steady firmness, and was startled to discover how his body shook.
“God’s love! You are soaked, you will catch a fever like this.” She plunged into a rush of activity, running to the door, calling for servants to bring another brazier, food and wine, dry clothing. She kissed his cheek, suddenly calm about everything “You are wiser than that fool Vortigern. You will always outwit him.”
The Kingmaking Page 21
