Saxons, large, fair-haired men – the palace swarmed with the creatures, Hengest’s men. Melwas’s too, it seemed. But then Melwas always had run with the King’s mercenary pack.
Employing others to do the dirty work was no new thing. Rome had often done so, playing off one tribe’s squabbles against another. Along the Tamesis and following the line of the Ancient Way, there were third, even fourth generation Saex settlers whose forefathers had fought alongside British auxiliary troops, with land given, according to custom, on retirement from service. Using the English was nothing new – except, unlike Rome, Vortigern had neither money nor land to give in exchange.
One of the guards spoke a few words of guttural British. “Orders, Lord Melwas. You remain chamber.”
“Am I a prisoner then?”
The man shrugged, holding his spear firm across the doorway. “No speak British,” he said. Gwenhwyfar had a deep suspicion that he did, and spoke it well.
“Must my cousin also stay?” She resisted the temptation to aim a foot at his shin. The guard shrugged again and threw a brief questioning glance at his companion. “Gwenhwyfar remain.”
She snorted contempt and slammed the door shut. “Ceridwen, you must find my father. Hurry!”
Ceridwen bit her lip and reluctantly opened the door to slip unchallenged beneath the crossed spears, blushing slightly at the guards’ appraising eyes. She peered along the corridor to make sure Melwas had gone, then hitched up her skirts and fled in the direction of Cunedda’s chamber.
XXXIV
As she neared her destination, Ceridwen slowed her anxious pace, then stopped in dismay. Two Saxon guards stood resolutely before Cunedda’s door. She twisted her skirt between her fingers. What to do? Had Enniaun gone? Where were the Gwynedd men? At the barracks or the guardhouse? Could she go there alone, would she have the courage? She must try!
A hand cupped her mouth, another curving round her waist, dragging her backwards kicking and struggling into a dimly lit room. The door banged shut, her assailant slackened his grip and she bit his hand, teeth sinking into flesh. He yelped, but kept firm hold. “Jesu, girl, I am on your side!”
She kicked out, her foot thudding into his shin. He swore again. “I am here to help you, for the Christ’s sake! Believe me. I am the Pendragon’s man.”
She stood still, breathing hard, body rigid, his hand clasped over her mouth.
“If I take my hand away will you be quiet?” He had a soft voice, kind.
Wide eyed, trembling with fear, Ceridwen nodded. Slowly he let go; she instantly whirled round and darted for the door. He caught her and swung her to face him, her small hands flying to his chest, hammering at his body.
“Listen to me, I said I was Arthur’s man! Would you rather I let you walk into a viper’s nest of Melwas’s Saex?”
Her hand slapped his face.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He let her go and flung the door wide, indicating with an extravagant gesture that she was free to leave. “Go. Melwas will be pleased to see you.”
Doubtful, Ceridwen regarded the young man. Tall, fair-haired, aged about twenty summers. His blue eyes glinted in the dim light, a tentative smile forming. Dressed in a simple tunic, weaponless, he appeared to be a servant, yet his stance, bright manner and voice lacked servility.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her head held high and defiant, as she had seen Gwenhwyfar do.
“I am Iawn.” He shut the door.
Ceridwen smiled shyly. “I apologise. You frightened me.” Iawn laughed, a pleasant sound, rich with humour. “Remind me not to frighten you too often, it could prove painful!” He inspected the deep teeth marks in his hand, winced then laughed again as she darted forward to inspect the damage.
“I must get to my Lord Cunedda,” she said anxiously. “Gwenhwyfar is being held prisoner in her chamber.”
“As is Cunedda.”
“His son and the men?”
“Gone. Enniaun slipped the net, thank God.”
“What shall I do? Gwenhwyfar must get away from here!”
Iawn sensed her distress and urgency, was suddenly reminded of his little sister. She would have been the age of this young woman had raiding Saex not butchered her two years past. He experienced an overpowering urge to protect this girl; wanted suddenly to gather her to him, take her to a place of safety.
If he had been at home on that day, not out hunting, he might have saved his sister and mother. He bit his lip, forced down the rising nausea. God in Heaven, would the sight of their mutilated bodies never leave him be?
“Do not worry, little bird, we have things under control.” He smiled, hunkered down to look directly into her anxious face, set his haunting nightmare aside. “There are many of us within the palace who secretly serve the Pendragon – and therefore Cunedda.
Ceridwen brightened, trusting him. “You are a spy then. I guessed you were no servant.”
Iawn pouted. “Damn it, I have worked hard at this disguise. It has been no easy thing these past months fetching and carrying, bowing to the likes of them.” He nodded towards the door indicating his contempt for Vortigern and his kindred.
His manner changed, his body becoming more stooped and huddled as he became a man whose only purpose was to serve. “What be your orders, m’lady?” Even his voice changed into uncultured, poor man’s speech.
Ceridwen clapped her hands. “Oh, that is good. You have a talent.”
He bowed modestly. “I take the character of a servant because they go unnoticed. You would be surprised at how many talk before us, assuming there is no intelligence a’tween a menial’s ears.”
He turned serious then and sat her on a stool, explaining carefully all that was planned, making her repeat her place in things twice over to ensure she had it aright. Satisfied at last, he saw her from the room, catching her hand as she passed through the doorway. He smiled.
“Ceridwen, take care of yourself.”
XXXV
Exercising patience, Iawn waited for nightfall. It was an easy matter to organise the escape of Cunedda’s few remaining men from close confinement. Before Cunedda’s door the silent blades of Iawn’s and another of the Pendragon’s men dealt with the Saex guard – and they were running unseen down narrow servants’ stairs and out through the lengthening shadows of dusk heading for the water gate. Ignoring the soft scuttle of movement, the guard along the wall continued his patrol, obligingly looking the wrong way, turning his back as a shadow slid through the gate. He touched a finger to the pouch at his waist, hanging heavy with gold. So few British were loyal to Vortigern now; so many could no longer tolerate the increasing presence of Saex mercenaries and the dominance of the Queen.
Gwenhwyfar and Ceridwen were ready as gravel rattled against the small squares of unbroken window glass. Ceridwen slid the catch and peeped out, delighted to see Iawn’s face staring up from below. He grinned and neatly caught the bundles they tossed down. Heart hammering a battle rhythm, Ceridwen gathered her skirts and climbed nervously out, her toes feeling for the wooden struts of the propped ladder. She felt Iawn’s strong hands grasp her waist and swing her safely down. Briefly she clung to him, awkwardly murmuring her thanks. Gwenhwyfar followed quickly, unafraid.
“Your father’s waiting beyond the water gate,” Iawn whispered. “We freed him and the men first lest we should find the need for fighting.” He looked about. No one. Nothing. “Make use of the shadows. Hurry.”
The night was dark, with no moon, and low clouds covering the stars. It would rain again before dawn. The oars of a small fishing boat dipped steadily in and out of the water, pulling downriver towards the vague, distant shape of a moored ship.
“Iawn has found a fast craft.” Cunedda spoke low, aware that sound carried easily over water. They had expected an alarm from the palace, the raising of the hunt, but nothing had come.
“The crew have been paid well, with the promise of more when I have word of your arrival. Here.” Cunedda pulled a ring from his finger. �
�Send this so I may know you are safe.”
Gwenhwyfar took it and slipped it on her own finger, where it hung loose and uncomfortable; nestled it in the pouch at her waist instead. When she looked up, the oarsmen were pulling alongside a timbered hull with a rope ladder snaking down and men leaning over to catch the bundles tossed up to them.
Ceridwen was ushered up the flimsy ladder, followed closely by Iawn, who steadied her feet, talking calmly to her as she nervously climbed. Anxiously she asked him, “Are you to come with us?”
He nodded.
She slipped her hand into his and held it tight. “Then the leaving is made that much more bearable.”
In the fishing boat, Gwenhwyfar held her father close. “Where will you go?”
“Horses are waiting. I ride fast for home.”
No time for more. Hands were pulling her forward, guiding her to the ladder. Before she knew it, she stood beside Ceridwen and Iawn on deck, and the little boat carrying her father was pulling away, out into the darkness. She realised suddenly she had not told him about her mother’s dagger, that Rowena had given it to Winifred – the bitch’s brat had taken good care to let her know.
Cunedda called something as the ship slipped her moorings and eased into the strong tidal pull. Gwenhwyfar caught only the words, “…safe voyage.” She leant over the bulwark, felt the leap of the ship as the wind took the unfurling sail, sending it racing forward, bow wave creaming. No use calling out: what could he do about a dagger anyway? She waved, knowing he could not see her through the darkness, finally abandoned the struggle against tears. At least the dark hid those.
It was stupid, childish. Her thoughts were not that she might never see her family or home again, but that Winifred, a thieving, poxed Saex, possessed her mother’s dagger!
XXXVI
The day after Etern’s bloody killing, Arthur went drunk to his marriage ceremony in Camulodunum. The thing had been agreed, arranged, there was no getting out of it. The handfasting had been set for three days hence, but the King, needing to ride urgently back to Londinium, brought the ceremony forward.
Arthur held himself well, despite vomiting profusely in the latrines before summoning the courage to enter Vortigern’s quarters. The haze of best barley-brew helped, the only way he knew of getting through this god-damned day. It had helped him sleep too, though not enough to dim the memory of spilt blood and Etern’s dead eyes.
The King noticed the way Arthur swayed slightly as he walked slowly into the private chapel. Hengest, standing beside his granddaughter, might have noticed too – happen they all had. Arthur did not particularly care.
It had occurred to him to run, but where was there to run to? Gwynedd? Ah now, Cunedda’s mountains would be safe, but he did not want to be safe, he wanted Gwenhwyfar. And he could not have her.
Beside him, Vortigern’s daughter spoke her vows in a clear voice, her self-satisfied smile wide with gloating. She was a tall, slender girl, and dressed in a fine silk gown, with flame coloured veil and gold trimmed leather sandals, her beauty was undeniable.
Her perfume, though, was strong, rather sickly. Standing so close, Arthur suddenly realised how much he hated her. And tonight he had to bed her! Or did he? He had taken her already. Vortimer, beside him, gave his elbow a squeeze of encouragement, but did not help matters by whispering, “Think on the pleasure of an untouched woman in your bed this night.”
A thought came. Arthur whispered back, loud enough for Winifred to hear, “A bride must be virgin pure, for if she comes to her husband’s bed used, then he has the right to strip her naked and whip her through the streets.” He looked at Winifred with loathing, his meaning plain. “Or accept her for the whore she is to do with as he pleases.”
To her credit Winifred’s smile did not waver, but a small doubt began to niggle in her mind. She had the Pendragon. He was hers, but at what price? As the wedding entertainment and festivities gained momentum, the doubt grew. Happen the prize was not worth the winning after all.
Vortigern had left soon after the ceremony. For once, Arthur would have preferred to ride with him.
The Pendragon drank deeper and laughed louder, and eventually, as night fell, he allowed himself to be escorted to the bridal chamber where Winifred waited, the sheets drawn to her chin, her hair unbound. Sweet-scented flower petals were scattered around, the aroma of beeswax candles. They put him to bed beside her, scattered more petals and blessings and left, laughing, tossing suggestive remarks and lewd advice over their shoulders.
Away to the south, a ship was steering into the flowing ebb current of the Tamesis river, her sails filling, carrying her swiftly for the open sea. Aboard her a passenger freed from an oath of betrothal; but Arthur did not know Cunedda had renounced all allegiance to the King, did not know that from now forward Gwynedd stood defiantly independent.
Tired, Arthur lay back, staring at the ceiling. Winifred had not moved; she sat with knees raised, the covers tucked beneath her chin. “I recall you were not so modest before.” He took hold of the sheets and pulled them from her. Involuntarily, she made to cover her nakedness with her hands, but turned the reaction aside and let him look full at her rounded breasts and flat stomach.
“No child then?” he sneered. “No fault of mine. I know of several bastard born daughters.” He threw the covers at her and turned his back saying, “Cover yourself. I have no need to look at you. I know already the slut I have.”
There was nothing Winifred could say or do as his breathing deepened into sleep.
A face swam through Arthur’s dreams, a face framed by wind-tossed copper hair. A woman with a laugh as welcome as a waterfall on a hot summer’s day. Gwenhwyfar.
Sunlight flooded the room, the morning well underway when Arthur woke, sluiced himself with cold water, dressed and made to leave. Almost as an afterthought he spoke to Winifred. “The thing is done, you are my wife. Enjoy the title – it is all you will ever have from me.” He strode through the door and met with Vortimer waiting outside. Had the man been there all night?
Footsteps from along the corridor. Arthur peered through the dim light, saw Cei approaching.
“I have news,” Cei said. “A messenger sent from the Lion Lord.”
Stepping forward to speak with his cousin, Arthur exchanged a few low words, then laughed, a high mocking sound that almost cracked into despair. He walked slowly back to Vortimer and stood before him, eyes narrowed, finger poking at his shoulder.
“Were you so scared I would wriggle free of this thing that you must stand guard at my door?” He poked again, harder, his face menacingly close. “Who had the idea to get me so quickly married to that whore in there? Which one, yourself or your poxed father, guessed that Cunedda would call blood-right and disclaim all agreements past made? Cei says a messenger has just confirmed it so. Which one of you wanted to make sure I was well shackled before Cunedda went back to Gwynedd?” He kicked the bedchamber door open, glared at Winifred, sitting as she had last night, knees drawn up, sheets to her chin.
“I am the Pendragon, woman. Remember that.” He slammed the door behind him and stood with his back against it, eyes shut, breath rasping in his throat. He need not have wed her! Cei had repeated Cunedda’s message word for word: Gwenhwyfar was on her way to Less Britain for temporary safekeeping. She was his, the Pendragon’s, with Gwynedd’s blessing, should he still want her.
Arthur wondered how a wedding night with Gwenhwyfar would have passed.
What to do? Two choices. Leave, declare Winifred a whore, and take ship for Less Britain to claim Gwenhwyfar as wife? He would need protect her against Melwas, for that bastard would sooner see her dead than with Arthur. Slowly he exhaled. He could live comfortably in Less Britain with Gwenhwyfar.
Or should he stay? Were he to leave Britain and abandon Winifred, Vortigern would never permit his return. Only as War Lord over some great invading army could Arthur then attempt to take the kingdom he so badly wanted. And Cunedda had been right: outside Britain, there
was no army for him to command.
Gwenhwyfar or Winifred? Happiness or a kingdom? Choices. Na, there was no decision. The thing was done, the shuttle was moving through the loom, with the pattern cast.
Suddenly, Arthur needed his men. The clash of weapons, the bark of orders and the pounding of hooves. The smell of sweat and blood, a taste of fear and excitement. Ignoring Vortimer, the Pendragon strode from the building. He wanted Gwenhwyfar but he was determined to be called King. When he had that, he would claim her.
He bellowed for someone to fetch Eira and rode to where, at this moment, the Pendragon belonged. With the army of Britain.
Part Two
The Weaving
August 453
I
The day had been long and hot. Up here, the ever present hill wind had helped cool the men down, but still they dripped sweat and were short tempered with the string of stubborn pack mules. Arthur called a halt early, although it was only mid-afternoon and they had plenty of light to cover a few more miles.
They made camp quickly and efficiently, securing the mule loads in a guarded tent beside the Pendragon’s. Then relaxed a while, taking the opportunity to bathe in the cold waters of the lake, grateful to wash the itch and stink of stale sweat from their skins.
Arthur splashed with them, diving deep into the clear pool, the green depths quiet and mysterious beneath him, stretching down as if to reach the Earth’s heart. It seemed another dimension of being, amidst this weird light and diffused sound; another place; the other world of Faery, where time had no meaning. He pushed upwards, feet kicking against the pull of water and for a panicked heartbeat it felt as if he were held there, trapped, being enticed down into that magic kingdom where no mortal dwelt. His head broke the surface, dazzling sunlight hitting him smart in the face. Men were laughing and jesting along the shoreline, splashing each other, pushing companions into the cool water. Arthur gasped and sucked in sweet, clear air and struck out, relieved, towards them.
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