The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  She grabbed the cloak from him, reached for her clothes, dressed quickly, pulling on her tunic, her fingers fumbling with the lacings.

  She trembled as his hands brushed hers, taking the irritating thongs from her to thread them easily, tying a neat bow.

  “I am more used to untying these,” he said in a soft, coaxing voice. He was so close. He smelt of horse and leather and male sweat. She stood still, eyes closed, as his lips brushed hers, parting them slowly for his tongue to flick over her white teeth.

  She was about to put her arms around him, draw him nearer, when a female voice made her spring away alarmed, red-faced. She pulled her gown over her head, hiding her embarrassment beneath its concealment.

  “My mistress sent me to fetch you, Lady. She says the clouds are forming rain and you should never come to the river alone.”

  “Quite right, girl,” replied Arthur briskly, taking the cloak and placing it around Gwladys’s shoulders. “Exactly what I was saying.” He ushered Gwladys forward, shooed her in the direction of the fortress, almost as if he were marshalling chickens. “Get yourself back, my Lady.”

  He turned, smiling pleasantly to the servant girl. “You, girl, can walk back with me. Wait while I fetch Eira.”

  Gwladys, flustered, had trotted a few paces, then she stopped, horrified, and fled back to Arthur’s side, grabbing urgently at his arm.

  “What if she saw?” she whispered, frightened. “What if she tells my husband – he is bound not to think well of it. Oh, what shall I do?”

  Arthur patted her hand. “What was there to see? A kiss from one friend to another – do not fret, my sweet, she saw nothing. Go on, get you home. Gwynllyw’s mother spoke aright, it is to rain.”

  Reassured, Gwladys lifted up the hem of her skirts and ran. She found her mother-by-law waiting concerned and stern within the gates, a lecture on her lips. Chided, Gwladys listened and then burst into tears.

  “There, child, I had no wish to upset you but think on it, we are not so far from your father’s lands. What if he sent spies to steal you back?”

  Gwladys’s hand went to her throat. She had not considered that. “He would not dare!”

  “I doubt he would, but all the same it is worth remembering. Besides, the river can be dangerous. Never go out alone, especially near the water – who knows what devilments lurk beneath its surface?”

  Gwladys bit her lip. She thanked the woman for her sound advice, walked with as much dignity as she could summon towards the chapel and spent an hour prostrate before the altar praying to her God for forgiveness. What devilment, indeed!

  Arthur squatted on the bank, holding Era’s rein loosely as the horse nibbled at the lush grass.

  “I have work to do, Lord, may I not go?” She was a pretty thing, if you could look below the matted hair and grime. “Why do servants not bother to wash?” Arthur asked.

  “I do!” she replied hotly. “You’d be mucky if you’d spent a mornin’ cleanin’ out the bakehouse ovens.”

  “You sound keen to get back to the task.”

  “I’ve finished. I were about to clean up when my Lady sent me on this errand.”

  “So you need to bathe? Your errand is completed, the Lady Gwladys safely gone – now you can wash.” He indicated the river. “Go ahead.”

  At first she hesitated, then, slowly, her fingers went to her bodice; she unlaced the thongs, pulled off her tunic and undergarments. She walked to the water, stepped in, ducked down, as relieved as Gwladys had been to wash away the clinging dirt.

  Arthur watched her a while then pulled off his own boots, unbuckled his sword belt and removed the light leather hunting tunic. “I think I will join you.” He pulled some handfuls of bracken, offered one to her. “You scrub the sweat from my back, girl; I will scrub yours.”

  He unfastened the lacings of his bracae and slid naked into the water, concealing the gasp as its coldness hit his belly.

  She stood uncertain, biting a black, chewed fingernail glanced in the direction of the fortress. He was wading towards her, had reached her, caught her arm and tumbled her backwards. She screamed, from the cold more than surprise. He stifled the sound with his mouth, rolling her over in the shallows, holding her close. She responded, giggling.

  The first rainfall for two weeks fell from a heavy grey sky. They did not even notice.

  After, he paid her well and rode the next day from the stronghold with nothing but a casual memory and a temporary satisfaction.

  February 454

  III

  Cei nudged Arthur’s arm, indicated the two people entering Vortigern’s audience chamber. Arthur frowned, screwing up his eyes to make out the faces through the crush of people and the smoke from the burning torches.

  “Who is it?”

  Cei gave a deep-throated chuckle. “A friend. Gwynllyw.”

  “Really?” Delighted, Arthur pushed his way through groups of men and women to greet the newcomers, making slow progress across the crowded room. “Gwynllyw! It is good to see you.” He clasped the man’s offered hand. “Why come you here to Caer Leon through this day’s foul weather? And with your wife too.” His look of pleasure turned to one of alarm. Usually the Hibernian sea-wolves did not raid during the winter months, but the weather, save for this day’s miserable wetness, had been kind, the seas calm. “Not bad news, I trust?”

  Gwynllyw returned the Pendragon’s enthusiastic welcome. “I had no idea you would be at court – I had heard you were up at Eboracum. No, my friend, no bad tidings, save a summons by the King.” He was a shorter man than Arthur, square-built with broad shoulders and thickset legs, his face blunt-chinned and heavy-jawed. He needed to tilt his head back to look Arthur in the eyes. “The one disadvantage to building my new stronghold at Caer Dydd is the proximity to this place.”

  Laughing, Arthur moved behind Gwynllyw to kiss Gwladys. “You are even lovelier than I remember.” He stood back and, firmly clasping her hands, observed her state of advanced pregnancy. “Though somewhat larger!”

  Gwladys blushed deep pink and flicked Arthur a glance from beneath lowered lashes. Her husband said with pride, “I regarded it wise to establish full claim to my property so her father could not stir trouble,” adding in an undertone, “Is Brychan here?”

  Arthur tipped his head indicating a group of men seated to the far right. “Aye, rats smell rotting vegetation from far off.”

  Grim, Gwynllyw answered, “I thought he might be.” But Arthur had no chance to follow the remark, for Gwynllyw added, “I am receiving dark looks from Vortigern, we had best make our obedience – may we join you after?”

  “Of course.”

  Arthur returned cheerfully to Cei. “Gwladys is pretty even in pregnancy,” he remarked. “Some women run to fat with child.”

  “Any girl is pretty to you,” retorted Cei affably.

  “Save my wife.”

  “Many envy you.”

  “Like who? They must be hard pressed for pleasure!” Arthur accepted dried fruits from a passing slave, chewed thoughtfully. Gwynllyw was presenting Gwladys to Rowena, the Queen making a gushing display of affectionate greeting. “So tell me, who are they?” he asked again.

  Cei’s reply was offhand. “No one in particular. Any man who seeks ambition and power would be glad to claw a way up through Winifred.”

  Arthur spat out a seed. “Be clawed by her, more like.” He looked with distaste at his wife, seated beside her mother. They were both animatedly talking to Gwladys, about the child no doubt. Arthur snorted, finding it difficult to believe Winifred could be interested in anything so maternal. Rightly, he ought to have felt slighted by her adamant refusal to be with him, but he had no interest in where she placed her backside. The further away the better.

  “Is there a rumour that she has taken a lover, then?” Casually Arthur glanced at Cei, knowing the man would not tattle idle gossip nor hold back truth if asked for a straight answer.

  “Not that I have heard. All the same,” Cei spread his hands
, “were she mine, I would have her watched.”

  Arthur finished his fruit, wiped sticky hands on the seat of his bracae. Did he care what the bitch got up to? Not particularly. But then, a good excuse to be rid of her could prove useful.

  Gwynllyw was approaching, hand outstretched to greet Cei.

  Arthur whispered quickly, “Arrange it. As soon as possible.”

  “I’l1 do it now,” he murmured. “Gwynllyw! How are you?” Cei stayed a few polite moments, then nodded to Arthur and took his leave.

  Calling for wine and a stool Arthur attended Gwladys, spoke fiercely to her husband. “By the Bull man, why drag her to this vipers’ pit in her condition?”

  Gwynllyw scowled. “Vortigern expressly asked to meet her. I think he is hatching some plot of reconciliation with Brychan.”

  “You have not softened towards each other yet then?”

  Shaking his head, Gwynllyw puffed out his cheeks. “To Brychan, I am a low-born whoreson who ought to be dangling on a rope from the highest tree.” He gave a great bellow of laughter. “And I suspect, Arthur, he would not object to having you dancing alongside me!” Falling serious again, he went on, “The pair of them grow anxious because I am not the mild hearth tender my father was. I have taken more land these last three years since his death than he did in an entire lifetime. And I am establishing a good trade with Less Britain and Gaul. The King likes it not that I am becoming a touch powerful in my part of the country.” He glared across the room at Vortigern. “But if he thinks he can curb my rising position by yoking me under Brychan’s rule, then he can damn well think again.”

  Alarmed, Arthur looked hastily around. “Mithras, Gwynllyw! Keep your voice down if you intend to keep your bull head lodged on your neck.”

  Gwynllyw compressed his lips, was tempted to make a scathing retort, but seeing sense laughed instead. “You’re right,” he slapped Arthur’s shoulder, turned the subject. “The horses arrived safe. Jesu, but Cunedda breeds fine stock.” Scanning the sea of faces, he asked, “Is he not here?”

  “Gwynedd has cut itself from Vortigern completely since Etern’s murder.”

  “That was a bad business.”

  A surge of bile rose in Arthur’s throat. ‘Aye, bad!’

  Gwynllyw failed to notice Arthur’s sudden silence, for he was saying, “It was good fortune the day I met with you.” He was laughing, at ease, pleased to have met with an old friend and that other men admired his pretty young wife, as large as she was. “God in his wisdom smiled on us that day.”

  Gwladys was not listening. She felt ill. She told herself the unease was due to the bulk of the child, thought the sickness was caused by the heat and noise of this room. When Arthur unexpectedly took her hand in his own, she squeaked and tried to jerk it away.

  “I know not if God had a hand in the matter of our coming together,” he was saying, “but by the Bull, I would not have missed seeing Brychan’s face for an empire’s fortune!”

  Gwladys managed to retrieve her hand, put it in her lap. The fluttering had become a pounding gallop. She felt for the string of glass and jet beads hanging at her waist and, threading them through her fingers, silently recited the litany against the temptations of sin. Arthur’s presence caused this turmoil – Arthur, and the thought of that never-forgotten afternoon by the river.

  From the dais, Winifred observed the woman seated with the man she called husband, watched his preening attention and joyful laughter. He never laughed or seemed happy and content when in her company. She hated him. Hated his callous disregard of her and his frequent scathing remarks. Hated wanting him so much.

  Occasionally, alone in her bed for yet another night, Winifred wondered if she ought to take a lover, but come morning common sense always returned. What if there was a child? What if Arthur were to discover her infidelity? He would divorce her for certain, and was that not what he wanted? Legitimate grounds to be rid of her, to publicly cast her aside and keep all her dowry? Ah no! Divorce would be on her terms or not at all.

  Curious, she beckoned her handmaid. “Find out who that woman with my husband might be.”

  The girl glanced across the hall. “I shall ask the servants, my Lady.”

  A slave overheard, pricked up her ears. Moving innocently to Winifred’s side she poured wine, said, “Forgive me, Lady – she’s Gwladys, daughter of Brychan.”

  Disregarding the girl’s blatant forwardness, Winifred said, “The daughter stolen from under his nose?” She grasped the girl’s wrist. “How do you know her?”

  Masking her fright at the sudden painful hold the girl stammered, “I was a slave at her husband’s stronghold.”

  Winifred watched Gwladys smiling at a tale Arthur was elaborately relating.

  “She’s very beautiful,” the slave announced. “I remember we all said so when first we saw her. It is a shame she has a temper like a pregnant sow. She had me whipped for no reason and sold. That’s how I come to be here.”

  Winifred digested the information, though she was not interested in the girl’s petulance, beyond an idea it might prove useful. “Did my Lord Arthur also think her beautiful?” she asked casually.

  “Oh aye.” The girl poured more wine. Seeing a chance to gain some small revenge, she grabbed at it – there might even be some form of reward. Freedom would taste very nice. She whispered, “I remember well the time he found her swimming naked in the river.”

  A muscle twitched in Winifred’s cheek. She said calmly, as if uninterested, “Indeed? Where is it you work? The kitchens?”

  The girl wiped her hands self-consciously on her filthy skirt, her heart racing. “Usually, Lady, but we’re all needed out here this night.”

  Winifred regarded her shrewdly. A pretty thing beneath the grime. Was it worth taking her spite seriously? “Would you rather serve as a handmaid?”

  The girl’s eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly.

  Winifred beckoned her personal maid closer. “Find this wretch some suitable clothing, and make certain she takes a bath.” To the girl, “We will talk again, later.”

  A glow of satisfaction warmed Winifred. Arthur regarded himself as clever. Well, she had stumbled on something to turn that cocksure arrogance and, by God’s truth, she intended to use it!

  IV

  Wet through, boots and legs plastered with mud, Arthur returned from inspecting the out-wintering horses and went reluctantly straight to Vortigern’s private chambers. Each time he was summoned he was forced to listen to a long litany of fresh complaints. At times he felt as though he were a child, being chastised by his tutor for failing yet again to write his Latin verbs correctly on the slate.

  He was surprised to find Gwynllyw with the King. Glancing at the young man he was astonished to receive an icy stare of contempt in return. Puzzled, Arthur inclined his head to Vortigern, the only concession of obedience the Pendragon would ever agree to make. “You sent for me?”

  “By the express request of Gwynllyw, I did.” Vortigern appraised Arthur’s appearance and the trail of muddy footprints on the tiled floor. Said irritably, “Could you not change into clean garments before entering here?”

  “I was ordered to attend you immediately.

  Vortigern’s lips thinned. Insolence!

  Arthur added to the hostility by sauntering to a chair, hooking it closer with his toe and sprawling in it, hands hanging over the arms, eye cocked between the King and Gwynllyw.

  “You may sit,” Vortigern said coldly. He turned to the other man. “Would you rather I informed the Pendragon of why he is here?”

  Gwynllyw stepped menacingly towards Arthur, drawing his sword. “Let that pleasure be mine.”

  Arthur tilted the chair to its back legs, said with a laugh, “What in the Bull’s name is this? Put your blade up, my friend.”

  Gwynllyw’s lip curled, hatred pouring from him. The tip of his sword hovered near Arthur’s throat. “I am no friend of yours, Pendragon. Surely you are indeed your father’s bastard!”

  V
ortigern pushed himself from his seat, walked towards Gwynllyw and nudged the blade aside with his arm. “Put the weapon away, it does not frighten the Pendragon. There will be time enough for bloodshed. Let us talk this thing over.” He sauntered back to his chair.

  Arthur let his own chair fall with a thud back to all four feet, stood abruptly. “Aye, and start talking quickly. I do not take kindly to a sword at my throat for a reason I know nothing of.”

  Gwynllyw sheathed the thing, his hand hovering none the less over the hilt. He snarled. “You have dishonoured my wife, Arthur Pendragon.”

  For some moments Arthur could not reply. Stupefied, open-mouthed, he looked from one man’s face to the other. Of all the reasons to be commanded before the King, threatened with a blade and accused of whatever it was he was accused of he would not have thought it involved Gwladys. Plenty of other women, aye, but not Gwladys.

  A string of thoughts came and went. Finally, thrusting his fingers through his sword belt he said, “I know not how you heard this lie, but lie it certainly is.”

  “You deny intercourse with my wife while I hunted?”

  If Gwynllyw had not seemed so angry Arthur would have laughed in his face. “Of course I damn well deny it!”

  Gwynllyw raged on, his voice husky with anger. “You also deny watching her swim? You remember that day, I presume? We left early, soon after sun-up; after a mile or two you said your horse was going lame and you elected to return to the Caer.” His hand clasped tighter around his sword hilt. “If I had realised then what I know now!” He had the sword half out of the scabbard again, staying the action as Arthur lazily rested his hand on the weapon by his own side.

  “Do you accuse me of taking the woman of a friend – and one who had been a bride of only a few days?”

  Gwynllyw, almost pleadingly, searched Arthur’s face for the truth. The idea of such a betrayal revolted him but Vortigern had insisted his source of information was reliable, and there were the rumours. Only whispers, but whispers murmured over often. Gwladys and Arthur and the river. Then there came the talk concerning the child. It had come quickly. Could he be certain he had the siring of it? And Gwladys? She seemed ill at ease, nervous and restless, turning from him in the intimacy of night. He had assumed it to be the burden of pregnancy but now he doubted. Could it be the guilt of carrying another’s child – Arthur’s child?