“For all that, she is your taken wife, Arthur.”
“She is a scheming bitch.”
Cei was cleaning his nails with the tip of his dagger. He glanced up at the last words. “That is not a very kind thing to say.”
“I cannot be kind to her. Besides, kind or unkind, it is the truth.”
Cei inspected his clean hands, stood and sheathed the weapon. “A wife, my friend, is for producing sons, preparing meals and running your household. God created woman to care for man’s need not for intellectual exercise. It is known a woman cannot be as intelligent as a man.”
A disturbance outside stemmed any answer Arthur might have had; a junior officer entered.
“Lord Pendragon, a messenger sent from Llwch.”
“From Llwch in Londinium? Send him straight in!”
Arthur glanced at Cei, his eyebrow rising slightly. Llwch, a well-chosen, well-placed spy in Vortigern’s household. His orders, to observe, listen and glean information. A loyal man, Llwch.
A young man, grimed from his journey and with tired black smudges beneath his eyes, entered and saluted. His boots were muddied, even his tunic where the mire had splashed.
Arthur eyed him for a moment as he stood to attention, looking straight ahead. “You are, if I am not mistaken, Dafydd, son of Idris Ironfist. Have you eaten or taken drink?”
“Na, my Lord. I have this minute ridden in.”
“Seat yourself and tell me what news brings you so far so fast.”
Cei crossed to the door and called for food while Dafydd, slightly hesitant, sank to a stool and smiled his thanks as Cei then poured a generous helping of wine. He gulped and wiped his lips, leaving a streak of white skin beneath the dirt.
“It is your wife, Lord.”
“What!” Arthur spluttered, spilling his own wine over himself and the bed covers. “Llwch has orders to send messages of urgent importance. By importance, man, I had matters of state in mind, not the petty grumblings of the sow I am wed to.” Arthur hurled a pillow at the young man, who had come to his feet at his commander’s shout and was again standing to attention. The pillow struck him, fell ignored to the floor.
“Her intention of running to Hengest is of no importance, my Lord? You are not interested to hear the child she bears, if it be a boy, will be regarded as Saex-born to the people of the Queen if it be brought to life at a Saex hearth?”
“Insolent whelp!” Arthur scowled at the messenger, held his hand out for the pillow to be returned. The lad retrieved it, placed it behind the Pendragon’s back.
Wriggling himself comfortable, Arthur grumbled. Said louder, “She would not dare birth a son of mine beneath a Saex roof!” His hand took hold of the pillow, hurled it at the far wall, and he swore as damaged muscles protested at the exertion.
“Can you be certain it is yours, Arthur?” asked Cei.
“She has been close watched. I am certain. Do you know more, lad?”
“Only that there is a smell of smoke in the wind, and growing rumbles of thunder from Hengest’s direction. Your wife is taking full advantage of your…” the young man flicked an awkward glance at Arthur’s bandaged leg, “your incapacity, my Lord.”
“Well, let her go. I would be rid of her.”
Dafydd said anxiously, “Sir, begging your pardon, if your wife sets foot on Saex soil you will lose control of her and the child. Llwch says, if it be a boy, he could one day become a powerful weapon against you – us.”
Arthur waved the lad to silence. “We had all this talk when Rowena’s boy, Vitolinus, was born. A sudden great fear that Hengest was going to sweep out of Tanatus – with fire and sword.”
“Arthur,” Cei broke in, “a child of yours, brought up in Saex hands, could make a dragon’s den of mischief.” He whistled at the unpleasant prospect.
“I shall not acknowledge the boy.”
“My Lord,” Dafydd urged, “forgive me, Saex ways are very different from Roman. Princess Winifred, the mother, can declare her son’s fathering. It will be enough for them.”
Cei muffled a groan. “He is right, Arthur. Once Hengest has the boy, you will never again set eyes on him.”
Arthur ran his fingers through his hair. It had grown longer of late, the ends touching his shoulders. He must have an inch or so trimmed off. “Oh, I would see him, have no doubt of that. Eventually he and I would meet somewhere across a battlefield.” He glanced meaningfully at Cei, who sat chewing his bottom lip deep in thought.
“She must be diverted then,” Cei said at length.
Sourly Arthur grimaced, not relishing his own coming suggestion. “Happen it’s time she was persuaded into her duty and paid a visit to her wounded husband.”
Cei asked, “Vortigern has agreed to this visit to her grandsire, I assume, Dafydd?”
“He knows nought of it. This is the Queen and your wife’s secret doing. We believe Hengest will soon rise against the King.”
Arthur laughed suddenly, seeing a humorous side. He wagged a finger at Cei. “If I did not know better, my friend, I would swear this was some carefully hatched plan to rid yourselves of my presence here!”
Cei began to protest his innocence, but Arthur waved him down. “Na, you shall be rid of me – and my dear wife shall have the pleasure of my company instead. She obviously wishes to bear our child somewhere other than Vortigern’s rotting palace in Londinium. Most sensible of her.” He grinned, enjoying himself for the first time in weeks. “I doubt she will agree to my meddling with her arrangements though!”
IX
“Why am I still waiting?” Winifred, her footsteps tapping as she stalked across the tessellated floor, snapped impatiently at a guard. “Why is my vessel not yet at the water gate? If it is not here soon, I shall forgo the river and ride to my grandsire.”
Her angry words sent her waiting ladies into a twitter of anxious protest. Irritated, she swept an ornamental vase from its pedestal, sending it crashing down to shatter into pieces. “Will no one discover what is causing this insufferable delay?”
She swung round, ready to vent her anger on her ladies, and found an insolently grinning British officer entering the chamber. He saluted and cheerfully apologised for the inconvenience.
“A merchant ship has shifted its load at the water gate, my Lady, it will take hours to clear. We have arranged for a litter to take you to a wharf lower downriver where a ship awaits you.” He pulled absently at the chinstrap of his helmet, added, “Only I would suggest you do not leave the palace at this moment, better to wait until the dawn tide.”
“What?” Winifred’s stare was murderous. “I have every intention of leaving now, on this coming tide.”
“There is trouble, my Lady – a rabble protesting over some minor incident at the palace gates. The King’s guard is dealing with the matter, but the mood in Londinium is tinder dry.”
Winifred glowered at him. “I am not afraid of a petty rabble, centurion.”
He shrugged. “Na, my Lady, I don’t doubt it, but I would not advise venturing through the town in your condition.”
“What does my father pay his guard for – to sit on their backsides all day or to protect the royal household? Are your men not capable of escorting me safely?”
The centurion sighed. “Quite capable, Lady, I only thought…”
“You thought? You ignorant pig’s muck, you have no brain to think with!” Winifred strode through the archway, her poise somewhat diminished by her pregnant bulk. She called, “I am ready to leave with this tide. Either you escort me or I find an alternative guard. Do I make myself clear?”
The centurion saluted and said, “Perfectly, my Lady,” adding under his breath, “be glad to get rid of you.”
Winifred was heading for the pillared colonnades which led to the palace main entrance. With a muttered curse the centurion hastily caught her up and barred her way.
“My Lady, we must use a side entrance. The mob is dense to the front of the palace. My superior thought, should you still in
sist on departing, it would be best if you slipped away unnoticed.” He indicated the direction.
She regarded him coldly. “Can this rabble not be contained? Are our soldier so weak they cannot contend with a few scum?”
“There are pockets of fighting, Lady, but the situation is well under control. We merely think of your safety,” he glanced at her bulk, “and that of the child.”
She nodded curtly, realising the sense of his words, but reluctant to give ground. She walked before him in silence, her ladies trotting and whispering behind.
Guards slammed their spears to attention as the group neared the side entrance and walked through into a narrow alleyway. There was rubbish strewn here, blown by the wind or dropped by unauthorised passers-by taking a short cut alongside the palace wall. A rat disappeared into a hole somewhere at the base of the wall.
The centurion handed Winifred into the waiting litter, made to draw the blinds. Winifred stared at him, her hand itching to wipe the silly insolent grin off his mouth.
“Your face is not familiar to me,” she said peering close, suspicious. Her finger flicked the sash around his waist. “Yet you wear the colours of the King’s guard.”
“I am new to the honour of serving the King, Lady, but I assure you I am not new to command. You will be safe under my protection.”
Winifred was contemptuous. “Then if you are so sure of my safety we shall go directly to the wharf and I shall keep the blinds open. I prefer not to be hidden away.”
“Na!” He spoke with authority. “I am certain of your safe conduct because we are not going direct to the wharf and because your litter shall be closed. The rabble are protesting over the favouring of trade with the Jute kind – given your connection with these people and your destination it would not be wise for you to be seen at this moment.” He took hold of the blinds with a firm hand, “We shall take a minor detour to ensure no one from the crowd suspects where we go. Then we shall head for your vessel. Best not to cause any undue antagonism.”
“I will not travel so,” Winifred insisted.
“My apologies, Lady, but I have been given my orders.”
“Who by?” she demanded, again probing.
The officer shrugged, astonished at her suspicion. “There is only one alternative to the King’s guard,” he said.
Winifred sucked in her breath.
The centurion looked over his shoulder to make sure no one observed or listened. He leant forward, on a pretence of drawing a cover over her and whispered, “The Queen takes great care in ensuring the right men follow her with loyalty and discretion.”
Winifred’s eyes rounded, her mouth forming a silent ‘Oh!’
If the centurion was her mother’s man, then surely he could be trusted? Satisfied, she pulled the blind shut.
Settling herself as the litter jolted forward, she smiled, contented. She was on her way; nothing would now go wrong. With the help of her grandsire she could achieve more with the birth of this babe than ever she had dared dream. She would hold the Pendragon by the throat – no, the nether regions would be more appropriate! You did not love me, husband, did not treat me well, so fear for the future.
She closed her eyes, her thoughts on Arthur. How foolish she had been to be so dazzled by him, to be so taken by his surface charm and appeal. Underneath that seductive smile lay an arrogant, self-opinionated louse. Happen she should have let that girl Gwenhwyfar have him. It would have been she who was now rejected and mistreated, she who had to suffer his whoring and drunkenness, his verbal and physical abuse.
The litter stopped; she heard gates opening and they moved on. She would soon hurl revenge in his face. But not until she felt the swell beneath the Jute ship that would carry her to safety could she breathe easy.
The journey was short and, apart from the distant roar of rioting crowds, uneventful. The litter ceased its lurching and Winifred parted the blinds to look out upon a small wharf some distance downriver away from the town. She stepped out awkwardly. A flicker of alarm crossed her mind as she realised the ship bobbing gently on the slack water was British. That foolishly grinning centurion took hold of her arm and led her firmly towards it.
“I was to travel under Jute sail,” she protested, attempting to shake off his hand.
“British or Saxon,” he hastily corrected himself, “Jute, it makes little difference, you will reach your destination.”
Winifred looked about her. Luggage was being unloaded from wagon to ship, but there was no sign of her women. She asked their whereabouts.
“They are in safe hands,” the centurion said, then, indicating the vessel, “Shall we go aboard?”
Winifred frowned, reluctantly allowed herself to be escorted up the narrow gangplank. He left her on deck with a polite excuse that he must see to the loading of her possessions.
The ship’s captain, a squat, plump man, hovered at her side and gestured graciously for her to follow him below.
“Welcome aboard, my Lady, I trust you will have a pleasant voyage.” He showed her to a small but adequately private cabin situated near the stern.
“Send my women to me right away.” Winifred gave her order as the captain made to leave her. He spoke no word, merely nodded his acquiescence. Winifred prodded at the none too clean or comfortable bed squashed to one side. Her women would have to sleep cramped on the floor; it would be no hardship for them.
There was the expected noise and bustle of a ship about to make sail. She ignored it as she lay silently alone. Her head ached and her ankles were uncomfortably swollen. She would close her eyes a moment. Just a moment.
It was with the first creak of movement that she pushed herself upright and muttered a curse. The fool of a captain had forgotten her orders. She took her cloak and swept up on deck – to see the riverbank dropping behind as the sail began to fill and lift the ship into the ebbing tide.
Waiting for her was that damned centurion, still grinning. “Where are my women?” she demanded.
“Safe,” was all the reply she received.
Patience snapping, she snarled, “If you do not remove that inane smirk from your face this instant, my hand will remove it for you!”
“Strike one of my officers, would you?”
Winifred froze, her face contorted with a mixture of rage, disbelief and fear. Involuntarily, her threatening hand, raised to wipe away that grin, went to her own mouth. She pressed her teeth hard into her flesh to stop the scream. Slowly, she turned to face the speaker.
Men were setting down a litter. Arthur lay comfortably sprawled, eyes bright with triumph.
“You bastard!” she spat.
“And I am pleased to see you also, dear heart. You look well.”
“Why are you here? What is this?” She was frightened, but masked it by an outpouring of rage.
“I heard you were anxious for somewhere safe to birth my son. Most commendable.”
Her hand was on her throat; her fingers could feel the thump-thump of the pulse bounding in her neck. How much did he know – or guess?
“We go to a place where my son will not be contaminated by any Saex disease.” She flung at him, “I suppose you arranged that convenient uproar in Londinium also?”
He smiled. “It was not so difficult.”
She raged then, for a while, stamping her foot, demanding the ship put about, return her ashore. Her protests fell on deaf ears. In desperation she ran to the side, stretching her arms imploringly towards the land slipping so fast away. Briefly she considered jumping overboard and swimming for the shore.
Arthur read her thoughts. “I would not advise it, the distance is deceptive. It would be a tough swim for a man; a pregnant woman would not survive.”
“I demand to know where we are going!”
“To my mother’s.”
Glaring, Winifred made to return below. Her husband’s presence sickened her; if he saw, he would assume the nausea came from the ship’s motion.
“Where are my women?” she asked fo
r the second time, half turning back to him.
“I dismissed them. There are women aplenty to serve you at my mother’s. I have arranged for a trusted female to serve you while at sea. I will send her to you.” Arthur held up his hand to attract her attention, his expression ominous as he added, “I warn you, wife, to treat her well. Save you, she is the only female on board. Treat her badly and I may consider withdrawing her for my own use.”
Her fury drained away and suddenly Winifred felt very tired, very alone. “Why do you hate me so, Arthur?” She took a faltering step. “I have done you no harm. I have given you wealth and pleasure in our bed. I have been a good, dutiful wife.” She laid a hand on her swollen abdomen. “I bear your son, the next Pendragon.”
Arthur’s eyes flashed. “Would this be the same son you intended one day to use against me had Hengest been so foolish as to leave me alive?”
Jesu! He does know!
“No! Oh no, my Lord.” Winifred waddled forward, knelt before him, her hands held out, pleading. “Who told you such a lie?”
“Contrition does not suit you. Suffice to say I know your planning.” He took her chin between his fingers, studied her at close quarters. It occurred to him he had never really looked at her before, never cared to go beneath the facade. “What were you to gain from this, Winifred?”
Her body slumped, her shoulders dropping, head lolling defeated and dejected. All she could do now was save herself. If he also knew Hengest was preparing to rise and that she had intended to go with him, then it was her end. Lie. Cover yourself with a lie.
“I wanted you, Arthur.” She looked up. “I only wanted your love. Was that so very much to ask?”
“So you seek a divorce. That makes sense.” He flicked her chin aside, let her go.
“I love you.”
“What a liar you are.”
That was the whole trouble, the whole topsy-turvy reasoning behind this running away. She did not lie. By some cruel stroke of fate she did love him – loved him and wanted him, but only as her own, her very own, not to share with those others.
The Kingmaking Page 29
