Cunedda laughed, his own tension lifting. “Then let us pray your faith is strong. Outwitting Vortigern is no easy task.”
Warmed with hot broth and dressed in dry bracae and tunic, Cunedda sat for a while.
Rain still fell outside, the morning brightening to midday and beyond, through the shadow of heavy cloud. Gwenhwyfar, at her father’s feet, poked at a glowing brazier. He toyed with her loose hair, so like her mother’s. Suddenly, he missed Gwawl. Missed her strength and laughter, her warmth and unswerving love. He wondered if there was indeed an afterworld where life continued on. Was Etern with his mother? How pleased she would be to see him, how proud. He shook the fancy aside. The time would come to grieve, but not here, not now.
He lifted his head as a polite tap sounded at the door. Gwenhwyfar rose to answer it, but Cunedda waved her aside, going himself to the door, sword drawn. Outside stood a young man, his face hidden by the hood of a coarsely woven servant’s cloak. A muttered exchange of words, then Cunedda closed the door and returned to the warmth of the brazier. A grim smile twitched.
“Melwas is not here at the palace – he has taken shelter in a tavern some miles to the north.” He nodded, satisfied. He was right to have made such haste, glad he was where he ought to be – na, not quite; he and his family ought to be in Gwynedd, but that would shortly be arranged. “Vortigern is expected to be returning to Londinium on the morrow. I intend to claim legal blood-right and ride from here in peace.” He sighed. “I would that we could just go, but I want no Saex riding hard after us, demanding we follow the King’s damned formalities. We will do this thing right. Melwas is in the wrong, not us. One cheering thought, Gwen,” Cunedda grinned, “the King is showing signs of his creeping age. He cannot ride as fast as I.” They laughed together, hiding their true feelings, sharing each other’s sorrow as rain pattered steadily beyond the closed window shutters.
“Da?” Gwenhwyfar spoke softly, her voice rousing Cunedda from the pull of sleep. “Does Arthur know of this arranged betrothal?” It had been a thought hanging with her this past half hour.
“He does.”
She fought back fresh tears. Cunedda slid an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him as if he would never let her go. “By all the gods I wish I had ignored this agreement with Vortigern and accepted Arthur when he asked for you, but until this…” He faltered, searching for adequate words. “Until Melwas provided me with it, I had no escape. Arthur himself pointed out the greatest danger. Were I to let you marry with anyone else your life would be forever endangered.”
One little spark of comfort began to grow in Gwenhwyfar, flaring warmer as she considered it. “Arthur asked for me?”
“Aye.”
Gwenhwyfar, her head buried deep in her father’s lap, let the tears fall. She had cried so much since that vision yesterday evening. Yesterday? Years past, it seemed. Could there be more tears left within her? At least now she understood why Arthur’s attitude had changed so abruptly. Why he had danced with Winifred and not with her.
Cunedda’s grip on her shoulder slackened and his breathing became low and even. Without disturbing him, Gwenhwyfar found a fur, placed it carefully over him and stood watching him sleep. There were grizzled streaks in his hair, she realised; the red was changing to grey. She had never considered her father to be old. She felt old herself – old and very weary. Her body ached, she was so tired.
Gwenhwyfar stumbled to the bed. She would lie down for a while, close her eyes, let the throbbing pain in her head ease.
She dreamt of muddled images: a glinting knife and red blood; Etern as boy and man, laughing – dying. Melwas with evil leering eyes.
And of Arthur.
XXXIII
Late afternoon. Without knocking, Cunedda burst into his daughter’s chamber, startling her and Ceridwen.
“Is your packing complete?” he asked curtly.
“Aye, Uncle.” Ceridwen glanced at Gwenhwyfar for confirmation. “We are ready to leave as soon as you give the order.”
“These here?” Cunedda pointed at two wooden chests standing to one side. Ceridwen nodded.
“Too much.” He strode over to the nearest, heaved up the lid and, rummaging inside, began to throw clothing on the floor. He cursed and left it.
“Sort a few gowns, only what can be carried in saddlebags.” He went over to the window. The shutters were open to let in a little light before night descended and he frowned as the guard patrolling along the water-wall came within view. “Niece, you leave with Enniaun for Gwynedd within the hour.”
“What of you?” Gwenhwyfar asked, stooping to retrieve the garments strewn about the floor.
“I shall stay to see through your marriage ceremony, arranged for the morrow.”
Gwenhwyfar dropped the clothing. “But…”
Her father would not listen to protests. Pulling a cloak from the back of a chair, he tossed it at her. “Use this to bundle what you need for yourself.”
His daughter, clutching the caught cloak, stamped her foot. “I will not wed that bastard!”
Cunedda’s expression darkened. “Vortigern sends word that you must. He will be here to witness the handfasting, and has personally paid the blood-price for Etern’s death. I am given the land along the coast down to the Ystwyth, and the right to the title of prince.”
“You have bargained me away for that?”
“Enough, Gwenhwyfar!”
She bit back a retort, gripping the cloak tighter between her fingers. “I am to be hostage then?”
“So it seems.”
She bent to pick up a gown, rolled it. Stopped. “Then why,” she asked, “do I need to bundle clothing in this cloak?”
Cunedda’s agitation changed to a grin. “Because I am secretly arranging for you to sail tonight to Ygrainne in Less Britain.”
“What!” Gwenhwyfar flung the cloak aside. “Am I to be forced into exile?”
Drily, “Would you rather stay in Londinium to wed with Melwas?”
She cried then, trapped between the one or the other, felt as she did when as a child she used to play at rolling down a slope. Tumbling down and down, over and over, faster and faster; head spinning, stomach churning. Never knowing when you were going to stop.
Cunedda took her shoulders and drew breath to steady his own racing pulse. “I have been this past hour with the King’s envoy.” His voice was hard. “Melwas also.”
She gasped. “Melwas is in the palace?”
“Aye. Vortigern apparently backs his nephew.” Cunedda’s mouth drew tight as he held his anger in check. Time enough for that when he had his daughter safe. “Etern, it seems, drew blade first.” He hushed his daughter’s immediate protest. “I know, it is a lie. But witnesses have spoken for Melwas: money and sweet words can buy anything.” He searched her face. Had she understood his meaning – how important it was to go, and go quickly? “Vortigern sends word that this marriage is the only way to ensure peace between us.” Vortigern and his poxed kin could rot in their Christian hell for all Cunedda cared. He would bow and scrape to the envoy, agree all there was to agree, buy time – and get away. The King could not force Gwenhwyfar to marry if she was not here. And the extra land and title? Ah, well, Cunedda was considering the taking of them anyway. With or without Vortigern’s gracious consent.
“I have a man securing a ship at this moment,” he explained. “You sail at the first opportunity.” He did not add the ifs. If I can get you safely out of the palace; if you can make sail along the Tamesis before your leaving is discovered.
“I see.” Gwenhwyfar squared her shoulders against the churning panic. Given the King’s present problems with the economy and the Saex, he would be hard pressed to follow her. She gathered up her belongings, flinging them on to the bed.
Ceridwen plucked up courage, from where she knew not, and stood before her uncle looking him straight in the eye. “I will not return to Gwynedd, my Lord. I will go to Less Britain with my cousin.”
Placing his hands
on the girl’s shoulders, Cunedda gave her an affectionate shake. “My dear, she may be gone for…” He paused. For how long? “Some while.”
“All the more reason to go with her.”
Ceasing her bustle, Gwenhwyfar hugged her. “Are you sure?”
Ceridwen nodded. “I am sure.”
“Then I will be glad of your company.”
Cunedda gave the younger girl a loving embrace. “I thank you, child, for your loyalty. It will not go unrewarded.”
Ceridwen blushed, stammering, “I seek no reward, Uncle.”
“Come,” said Gwenhwyfar, pushing Ceridwen forward. “Put on two of every garment. It will be cold at sea by night and we know not what type of ship to expect.”
“In a while,” Ceridwen was heading for the door, sensible, practical as ever. “We may be hungry before sunrise. I will see what food I can beg. I have been bringing meals up to you of late – no one will suspect.”
“Go then. Be quick.”
Gwenhwyfar stripped to her undergarments, rummaged among the rumpled clothes and pulled on two layers. Cunedda had taken up her jewel casket and emptied the items into a leather pouch. “There is extra in here. I shall send more.”
Taking it, Gwenhwyfar hid the pouch within the garments rolled in her cloak. “Take care of Tan for me, Da.”
Cunedda raised his eyebrows. “All this, and you take time to think of your damned mare!”
Gwenhwyfar pulled a cord tight around the bundle, remarking lightly, “If I were to think of more important things, my belly would freeze with fear and I would be unable to set one foot before the other.”
Her father nodded, knowing how she felt. “I will run her with my best stallion and will breed you a fine colt.”
Gwenhwyfar smiled approval. “For the Pendragon, my gift to him.”
Choking suddenly, her father held his arms wide, feeling the need to hold his daughter. She ran to him, pressing close to his body.
For a while he held her, stroking her hair, breathing in her perfume. It would be a while and a while afore they met again. Then he set her from him. There was much to do. “I must wish your brother a safe journey home.” He winked at her. “He will take Tan with him.”
Forcing a smile until he left the room, Gwenhwyfar slumped on to the bed. Left alone the blackness edged nearer, bringing fresh fears and pain. She lay down and buried her head in a pillow, hugging its goose-down softness for comfort. The pit was before her again; only one step and she would be in, lost to despair. It was as if a long, silent scream were wailing and wailing inside her head.
Some fifteen minutes she lay there, only roused as Ceridwen ran terrified into the room. She threw a bundle of food on the floor and whirled to slam the door shut behind her, thudding the bolts home. She stood panting, her back pressed against the wood. “Melwas is coming!”
Gwenhwyfar’s hands flew to her mouth, failed to stop the small scream escaping. Think quickly. Turn panic to action. “He must not suspect anything. Hide these bundles. Quickly!”
They tidied the room, cramming strewn clothing into chests, kicking things under the bed. Would Melwas notice her padded figure? They had never met, he might not.
They were prepared, but the stamp and thud of feet beyond the door made them jump all the same. Ceridwen stuffed her fingers in her mouth, trying to resist the impulse to hide behind her cousin. Melwas bellowed, demanding entry. Calmly Gwenhwyfar walked to the door and spoke through it. “What means this? I mourn my brother, will accept no visitors.”
“I have urgent matters to discuss. Let me enter.” From his tone, he was not about to go away.
Could she deny him entrance? Gwenhwyfar doubted it. She tried another feint. “I am alone, my Lord, I cannot receive a man in my chamber.” She motioned frantically to Ceridwen and whispered, “Hide yourself over there,” pointing to the chests. Ceridwen crouched behind them and Gwenhwyfar flung bed furs over her. “And for the sake of the gods,” she hissed, “remain still!”
Ceridwen gasped a nervous giggle, “Do not let him stay long.”
“That,” Gwenhwyfar assured her, “I promise you.”
Melwas was pounding on the door, but suddenly the noise ceased. Gwenhwyfar’s heart beat as loud as his knocking. Had he gone? Na, he spoke again, level and explicit. “Draw the bolts or I shall have my men axe the door.”
Gwenhwyfar waited a few moments, then straightened her shoulders and drew back the bolts. Melwas burst through, almost knocking her aside as he strode into the room, glaring around as if he expected to find some other man there. Gwenhwyfar remained at the door, holding it open. The men, Saex, were standing guard beyond.
Melwas moved to stand within an inch of her. “If you dare to deny me entrance again I shall order you whipped.” He flung the door shut, challenging her to object.
She stood, forcing herself to appear relaxed, but alert. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I have brought you a gift.” He spoke triumphantly, gloating, knowing he had won out over Cunedda. He took her hand, frowned at the bandage.
“You have hurt yourself?”
“’Tis nothing serious my Lord. The wind blew the casement open. A glass pane shattered as I tried to close it.”
Melwas wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You have servants to do such tasks. Such injuries easily fester.” He shrugged the matter aside, led her away from the door and slipped a jewelled ring on her finger. “Tomorrow I shall add a marriage band.” He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. They were dark green with flashes of tawny gold, he noticed. Attractive.
But Melwas did not know her. Did not realise those sparks and flashes were signs of seething hatred. He turned her hand over and placed a kiss at the tip of each finger. Gwenhwyfar marvelled that she mastered the overwhelming desire to snatch her hand away and spit in his face.
He was a short man, no more than five feet and a few inches, his lack of stature the more obvious because of his bulk. Clean-shaven, he wore his hair cut short in the Roman style, but was dressed like a Saex. His eyes were dark and set too close together, small eyes that darted suspiciously. Gwenhwyfar was reminded of a boar. A great ugly stinking boar.
Melwas grinned, a leer that passed beyond pleasantness. “You are indeed a fine woman. A good catch. Though I would have preferred you to be a trifle shorter.” He let go of her hand.
She wiped his touch away on the back of her skirt, thought, Would you like me to cut my feet off at the ankles then? She smiled placidly.
Melwas enjoyed talking, it seemed – best let him conduct the conversation. “Circumstances make it imperative that I take you as wife without further delay.” As he spoke, his gaze had dropped to her bosom. She thanked the gods her choice of clothing for this cold weather concealed her body from the neck down.
“I had been told you were a skinny rake.” He laughed lasciviously and moved closer, his body brushing against hers. “I like to have something to get hold of. Good firm teats and buttocks.” Gwenhwyfar stood her ground. His mouth opened wider to reveal yellow-stained teeth, his breath foul. “Soon enough we shall have you broader, when I have my son breeding in you.” He bent to kiss her mouth, his lips flabby against hers, his flesh oily. God’s truth, he stank!
Gwenhwyfar pulled away, fighting nausea and the desire to wipe his obscene taste from her mouth. “My Lord, this is not seemly. I ought not to be alone with you.”
His laughter shifted to a more malicious sound. “Why not? We are betrothed, the morrow sees our wedding day.” He smirked at her, drawing her to him, pressing his body tight against hers. “And after that,” he added, “our wedding night.”
Gwenhwyfar removed his hand from the lacings of her bodice. If he should discover the layers she wore! He tried again to unfasten her gown, but she wriggled and managed to break free.
“Come, Gwenhwyfar. Need we wait?” He grabbed suddenly at her hair, forestalling any further movement. She fumbled for her dagger, silently cursed.
“I
suppose,” he nibbled at her ear, his breath hot on her neck, “I must express my regrets for your brother’s death – though my action was purely in self-defence you understand. A regrettable incident.” His lips sucked at her flesh. “He and the Pendragon were spoiling for a quarrel with me – in the name of God, I know not why.” His hands moved to her buttocks.
Gwenhwyfar wanted to kill him, gouge his eyes out, rip his testicles from his body, slit his stomach. She managed to step away. “My brother has always been —” She stopped herself. “Always was imprudent” – she choked over the words – “my Lord.” She had to have him gone! “I am flattered you desire me, and I too look forward to our wedding night, but would not haste spoil the excitement of anticipation?”
“I am not one for formality. I take what is mine, when and where I want it.”
Gwenhwyfar walked quickly to the door and opened it. I wager you do, you bastard. She smiled, forcing all the pleasure she could into that sweet expression. “Our joyous union must be blessed by the priest, and waiting,” she flicked a flirtatious look at him, “heightens reward.”
Melwas grinned more broadly and hitched his sword belt arrogantly higher. Gwenhwyfar shuddered but kept her smile firm. “And your son must be legitimate born.” She spoke with such conviction!
He kissed her again as he ambled past, attention lingering on her deliciously rounded chest. “Until the morrow then.”
“I await it eagerly.” She flung the door closed behind him, slamming home the bolts. Leaning back against it, she swore all the most vile and obscene oaths she knew.
Ceridwen scrambled from her hiding place, face red from anger and holding her breath. “How dare he! What an arrogant spiteful beast!”
Going to the water pitcher, Gwenhwyfar scrubbed at her mouth with fresh, clean tasting water and wiped her face and hands. His taste lingered; again she swilled water in her mouth and spat it from her.
“We must find my father, leave here now. We cannot wait until tonight.”
Her cousin did not argue.
Opening the door, Gwenhwyfar found her way barred by crossed spears. “What is this outrage?” she demanded, taking hold of each spear, attempting to force them apart.
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