The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  The jewels, diamonds and rubies, were set within walrus ivory. He had seen such a thing before – long ago. His voice very quiet, very dangerous, he asked, “Where did you get this?”

  “I am not bound to answer your interrogation.”

  He gave a sinister laugh. “Oh but you are. A wife is duty bound to her husband. How came you to be in possession of Gwenhwyfar’s blade?”

  Winifred looked him full in the eye, unflinching. “She gave it to me.”

  The Pendragon stood silent, memory flooding over him. Gwenhwyfar’s hands deftly slitting fresh-caught fish; this blade glinting high, triumphant, as she taunted him and her brother Etern at mock battle. Her dagger, her mother’s before that. “She would never part with such a personal treasure.” Arthur returned Winifred’s look, staring her down. “You stole it, didn’t you?”

  Winifred snatched at the dagger, screaming coarse abuse. Arthur flung it aside, sending it clattering harmlessly to the floor. She broke free of him and lunged desperately for the blade; his hand grabbed, missed, tore her gown, ripping the bodice. He kicked, sending the dagger spinning out of reach.

  She looked wildly around for some means of protection, backing away from his rage.

  Arthur remained still, running his gaze over her partially revealed breasts. He leered at her, removing what remained of her clothing with his gaze. “I know a far more potent way of hurting your evil pride.”

  Furious at his implication, Winifred hurled whatever came to hand. Skilfully he knocked aside each missile – a vase, a chamber pot, a stool. Watching his chance, with the ease of a fighting man, he ducked in low and threw her to the ground. She tried to claw his face; he pinned her down, holding her between his knees and with one hand tore the remains of her gown from her. Unlacing his bracae, he entered her quickly, his satisfaction heightened by the burning outrage on her face.

  She spat some word of abuse, furious with him, with herself, moaned as a sudden surge of pleasure shot through her body. She pushed herself from him, arching her back, drawing him deeper in as her arms encircled his shoulders, wanting more. Desperately wanting more.

  He was kissing her now, his mouth covering hers, his hands on her breasts, stomach, then thighs.

  Winifred gasped, twined her legs around him, her body jerking as she climaxed, and again as he came with her. Breathless, her body shuddering, she lay helpless beneath him, limbs spread, head back, panting.

  When he moved, it was only to roll from her, spent. He lay there, eyes closed, breathing hard, sweating.

  Winifred half sat up, reached a finger to wipe tentatively at a drop of perspiration from his shoulder, instead licked it with her tongue. He did not move. Her tongue flicked at his throat, down over his chest, along the line of dark hair running to his navel. She changed to alternating kisses, moved lower.

  When he was at last dressed he bent to take up Gwenhwyfar’s dagger and pushed it through his sword belt. He sauntered to the door. Winifred remained flat on the floor, her body echoing the crescendo of sensations from their second coupling. Impulsively he strode back to her and seductively kissed her mouth, his tongue probing, lips insistent. His callused soldier’s hand briefly fondled her white breast.

  Her hand covered his, holding it there. “Come again to me soon, my Lord.”

  He kissed her one last time, a light touch to her lips. “Only if I can find no better place to sheathe my sword.”

  She slapped his face with all the strength she could muster.

  His laughter echoed along the corridors, mingling with her screamed abuse.

  VI

  Gwynllyw poured himself another large measure of wine, swallowed the whole in one gulp, placed his tankard carefully before him. “I have been well played for the fool.”

  “Are we not all fools where women are concerned?” Arthur said, reaching across the wooden table to help himself to wine.

  The tavern was crowded, men sat or stood, drinking, talking and laughing, the place swirling with a variety of noises and smells. It had taken a while for Arthur to find his friend; a longer while, and four jugs of the place’s best wine, to convince him of the truth.

  Gwynllyw attempted a half-smile. The wine had gone to his head; he felt dizzy and ready for sleep. His speech came slurred. “What should I do now? How will I explain to Gwladys? Will she ever forgive me this madness?”

  Arthur tossed back his wine; he knew well what he would do, but how to advise Gwynllyw? “I would go straight to my lady’s chamber, order her servants out and bolt the door on them. I would then carry the wronged lady to her bed and make slow, passionate love to her.” A grin broadened. “After, we would lie close a while, then I would do it all over again. And then…” Arthur paused. What then? He himself would make promises, vow his love and leave her, immediately forgotten and ride back to his men. “Then, I would order up the horses and go home. Sticking my cock up to Vortigern and Winifred, leaving the pair of them to rot in the dung-heap of their own lies.”

  Gwynllyw nodded agreement and stood up, swaying unsteadily. He held out his hand in friendship. “Sound advice. I will do that then.”

  Arthur watched him leave, tripping and stumbling from the tavern, weaving drunkenly through the door and up the street. Turning to a fifth jug, Arthur wondered whether he would make it to Gwladys’s chamber, or be found lying drunk in the gutter come dawn’s light.

  Winifred groaned and pushed her maid aside sending the bowl of bloodied water splashing to the floor. Her face was swollen from Arthur’s beating. She ached, she hurt. Every part of her body throbbed or screamed with pain.

  She hated him, loathed the sight of him. How dare he do this to her? The bastard, the evil, brutal bastard.

  Rising from the stool, she shuffled to the bed, winced as her maid again began salving her hurts, buried her head beneath a pillow as the tears came.

  She wanted him dead – dead a hundred times over by a hundred sickening methods; but, oh dear God’s love, she wanted him back!

  Damn him! Damn, damn him! She would let him do it all over again, if only he would come back.

  September 454

  VII

  Eira shifted weight from one hind foot to the other, eyes half shut in semi-sleep, his jaw resting heavy on Arthur’s shoulder as his master absently stroked the soft pink velvet part between the horse’s nostrils. With a deep sigh, the stallion drowsed in the hot sun.

  Arthur was looking up the wooded slope watching the vaguely discernible shape of one of his men, carefully hidden within the dappled foliage. Somewhere behind a horse squealed, kicking out against the bite of a horsefly.

  “Damn you!” Arthur hissed, turning towards the unwanted sound. Eira snorted, tossed his head and backed a pace. “Keep your mount quiet!”

  Red-faced, the rider calmed his horse, his eyes, in his deep embarrassment, looking everywhere except ahead at his commander’s disapproval.

  Then the lookout signalled. With the minimum of noise Arthur’s turma of thirty or so men mounted and nudged forward in single file at a slow walk. The horses had come alert, were eager for action.

  Arthur reached the end of the hollow and reined Eira back, the horse straining against the curbing bit with impatience. The lookout sat motionless, poised, one hand raised. Not daring to breathe, he willed the band of Saex cur-sons forward, just a few more paces… With a flourish, he dropped his hand.

  The waiting was over.

  A few of the Angli, to the fore of their band of fifty fighting men, yelled a startled warning as a rushing blur of colour and sound poured from the trees. Fleeting glimpses of pounding hooves, scything swords and thrusting spears. The Dragon, tubular shaped, glinting red and gold writhed and tossed above the heads of yelling horsemen. The wind wailed through its hollow insides and screamed out through its tail of streaming ribbons, turning it into a live thing, writhing and twisting and shrieking of death.

  The Angli fought bravely while the sudden, swift slaughter lasted; the handful left alive dropped their
weapons and fled back along the sun-dappled trackway, their eyes bulging with terror as Arthur’s cavalry pursued them, picking off those who fell behind.

  Sound drifted from the place of ambush, leaving only quiet. A fox slunk away from the disturbance, wrinkling his snout at the intrusive scent of human blood. Carrion birds gathered, gliding in on silent wings as if summoned by some faery spell; a few began to hop on ungainly legs to peck at the carnage of Anglian bodies strewn about the flattened grass.

  With yells of excitement, Arthur encouraged his men forward, the thrill of the chase hot in his blood. Two scared Angli plunged down a weed-grown bank into the river, thrashing through rushing water, attempting to run against the current that pulled at weary legs.

  Eira faltered at the crest of the low bank, ears flickering, hooves sensing the weakness of the ground. Arthur kicked him on, intending him to land out in midstream, but the horse’s hind legs slipped as he thrust forward, his quarters dropping as he leapt. Somehow he twisted in mid-air, landed awkwardly, forelegs scrabbling for a firm hold. Spray spumed high as he went crashing down taking his rider with him.

  The horse panicked, thrashed the turbulent water, ears flat back, eyes rolling. He struggled, kicking with his hind legs, attempting to gain solid ground. Noise all round, shouts, neighing horses. Someone screaming.

  A man was at the stallion’s head – Cei, taking hold of the bridle, speaking calm words, gentling the trembling, snorting beast. At the sound of a familiar voice, the horse quietened; Cei persuaded him forward. With a heave, Eira lurched free of the water to stand head lowered, flanks heaving.

  Cei, his own heart pounding, tossed the reins at someone and plunged back into the muddied water, running against the current, his face white.

  Men equally anxious were already lifting Arthur, his blood turning the white river foam a grotesque pink.

  Forgotten, the Angli ran on, offering aloud grateful thanks over and over to their own gods.

  Merciful darkness had overtaken the Pendragon. He lay still as death as Cei bound the thigh tight, to splint broken bones and stop the bleeding. Men brought forward a hastily fashioned litter, lifted their leader as gently as they could and set their feet, minds numb, for camp.

  VIII

  Cei found himself grinning foolishly with relief as Arthur yelled an oath at the surgeon. “Mithras’ life, man!”

  “I would not have believed I could be so pleased to hear your cursing,” Cei laughed, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

  “You will be hearing more if this oaf does not take more care,” Arthur grunted his reply, gritting his teeth as a fresh thrust of pain burst from his damaged right thigh.

  The surgeon grinned back at Cei. “I preferred our commander unconscious. At least it made my work easier, and quieter.” He frowned at Arthur. “If you were to be still, the pain would not be so intense.”

  “Be still? Balls, man, how can you expect that with you poking and prodding about as you are? Besides,” he added curtly, “I have never been still.”

  The surgeon straightened, began rinsing his hands in the bowl of clean water Cei had fetched from the far side of the small room. “So you will have something new to try. Horses crashing down upon their riders, then struggling to their feet trampling a man’s body as they do so, are apt to leave damage. You owe it to the blessing of Fortuna you escaped with your life.”

  Arthur fought hard to stop the screaming pain from reaching his lips. The past few days of semi-consciousness were a mindless mist of blinding red agony and grey-black, drifting muttering sleep. The crashing fall a distant haze of blurred memory. He recalled the ambush well enough, and the cheer that rang loud in his ears as the few remaining raiders took to their heels. Dimly he remembered urging Eira to jump that bank. The rest was a tangled muddle of choking water and thrashing hooves, shouting voices and screams of agony. His own, presumably.

  Resigned to inactivity, he sighed. “How long before I can fight again?” It was a question that had been playing on his mind since morning. Now the incredible pain was showing signs of easing and the surgeon had ceased administering that bitter-tasting drink that always brought back a welcome escape, the questions were coming thick and fast. Some of them were not going to have pleasant answers.

  Lovingly packing away the tools of his trade, the surgeon took a while to answer. He glanced at Cei, who raised his eyebrows.

  “Fight, you say?” he said, stalling. Fight! By the holy God: all who loved and served the Pendragon had thought, as they dragged him muddied and bloody from the river that, if God in his wisdom granted him life, he would never walk again. But fight! Fight?

  “Well, Marcus?” Arthur demanded, searching the older man’s face. A good surgeon, this one, who had saved many a soldier’s life – and wept over the many more he had lost. Arthur put his hand on the man’s sleeve, his grip firm despite the weakness that shivered in his body. “I would prefer to know.” He said it quietly, unsure whether he spoke truth.

  Years with the armies had taught Marcus many skills. He could set bones, stitch wounds, pull spears, cut out arrow barbs. He considered himself one of the best in his profession, yet still he found it difficult to break hard news to brave soldiers or their remaining loved ones. It was not easy to tell of death, the losing of a limb or an end to a way of life. How many had he had to tell that nothing lay ahead except bleak years of pain and disabled hardship? He drew in his breath and began to talk dispassionately, detached, telling the truth and telling it quickly.

  “With time the bone and muscle should heal well enough to bear your weight. Time, patience and good care should see you walking again. The thigh takes great stress and yours has been badly abused. Fighting needs the agility that comes from strength and stamina.”

  “Aye, well, you never were one to mince words,” Arthur said drily, easing himself into a more comfortable position. “What you are trying to tell me tactfully,” he smiled sardonically, “is that I may not fight again.”

  The man half saluted and made to leave. “To any other I would say, make plans for another life. But I knew your father, Arthur – I healed enough of his wounds – one near as serious as yours.” His hands tightened on his medical bag. He had loved Uthr. Loved this, his son. “Battle killed him in the end. I could never expect him to forgo fighting, any more than I could expect him to stop pissing water.” Then curtly, “You are much like your father.” He saluted. “I will come again on the morrow.”

  Cei stood silent, observing Arthur’s grey, stubbled face. At length he asked, “What do you intend to do?”

  “Do?” Arthur replied, shifting slightly and instantly regretting it. “What would you do? Crawl into a hole somewhere and bury yourself along with your ambitions and plans?”

  “Most would. But as the man said, you are Uthr’s son. No hole would be deep enough for you. You would sit and fuss and fidget until the earth gave way and spewed you up again.”

  Arthur chuckled, then winced. “Mithras, Cei, when I am eventually in the thick of another skirmish remind me not to be so damned impulsive! Is there a way to fight without being hurt, I wonder?”

  “Would there be much point?” Cei said, laughing. “It is the risk that brings the thrill.”

  “As for what I am going to do,” Arthur concentrated his thoughts, “I am leaving you, my second-in-command, in charge of the men, and I am going to lie here and bellow at all who enter. I am going to be the most tiresome, irritating patient.”

  Cei choked back laughter. “Well, that will certainly be a change of character!”

  “And,” Arthur added, rubbing his hand over the itching stubble, “I am going to have a shave.”

  Days passed wearily, the outside thrum of routine barrack life blurring into a haze of time. This day as on any other, Arthur lay dozing, the difference being the rain had stopped and sunlight streamed through the open door of his quarters, lying hot on his face.

  Cei entered quietly, but the movement disturbed the sleeper and h
e woke. Stretching cramped arms, he asked, “Back so soon? How did it go? A successful raid – I can tell it was.”

  “Superb!” Cei walked swiftly to the bed and sat down, his face alight with excitement. “We swept down from cover as dawn broke – they never knew what hit them. You should have been there – the men fought so well; we have them at their peak. With more men and better horses we will be invincible.”

  Arthur shrugged and uttered an explicit oath. “I ought to have been there. I am their leader, but I lie here doing damn all.”

  “Short of following by carried litter, there is not much for you to do about it, is there?” replied Cei, speaking plain. “It would be better for you if you were to return home to court. These barracks are no place for a restless spirit.”

  “Home? At Vortigern’s court!” Arthur sneered, snorting with contempt. “Fight another round of endless bickering with my wife, you mean?” He made a derogatory noise and settled back against the pillows. “I have no home, save in Less Britain.”

  He sighed, his mind wandering to the villa estate where he was born and raised. To the calm, wide river where he swam and fished as a boy, the acres of vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see. He had spent his childhood there, yet it was not home. Home was a place where your woman waited with your children. Where unconditional love welcomed you to the warmth of the hearth.

  Home was here. With his men.

  “You ought to consider settling Winifred in your own holding, Arthur,” Cei persisted. “In your own Caer, away from the influence of her mother, things would be better a’tween you. Especially now, with a child on the way.”

  Arthur shook his head, his lips puckered, nose wrinkling with distaste. “The last time I was with Winifred, a week or so before this,” he pointed to his thigh, “I felt as though I had entered your Christian Hell. She demands so much of me, and there is nothing I care to give her save hard words. I cannot help it, I despise her. How can you give even a pretence of love when you hate someone enough to want her dead several times over?”