As each stride took them nearer home, the feeling of fear gripped harder at Gwenhwyfar’s belly, twisting tighter, colder. What should she expect? Was Arthur alone? Ah, was it not that question which stirred this running tide into a hundred, hundred eddies and whirlpools?
As if her thoughts had been spoken aloud, Bedwyr said suddenly, “I wonder if my cousin Arthur has brought his wife? Aunt Ygrainne was furious when she learnt of his marriage. To wed with the daughter of the man who had slain Uncle Uthr! Remember how she shrieked with rage for days after?” He whistled a short, catchy tune, added, “I expect Arthur had his reasons. I know he needed gold – he wrote me once he wanted to purchase horses for his men. I expect she was worth the taking for the extra wealth she would bring him. Mind,” he prattled on, unaware of Gwenhwyfar’s agonised silence, “I have heard some men do strange things, fall in love and such, pah!” He spat on the ground, a thing which would earn him a whipping were Ygrainne ever to see. “That’s stuff for girls, not for war lords. Arthur thinks like a soldier, he has no time for soppy things like love.”
He spoke innocently, from a child’s perspective. How could he know his words were burning like a red-hot brand through Gwenhwyfar’s heart?
She stammered out some brief answer. Swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
Arthur’s marriage had caused a stir when the news had come, its ripples of gossip spreading wider afield than the villa. The town too had been shocked, speculation circulating for days, the consensus being that Arthur had wed the girl for her handsome dowry. Then the thing had become accepted and forgotten by family, friends and town folk – but not by Gwenhwyfar; she could not accept or forget. She was to have been Arthur’s wife, had given her pledge. She loved him and Arthur loved her – she rubbed a stray tear from her cheek – or so she had thought. What was it Bedwyr had just said? Arthur was a soldier, he would not dwell on idle things like love?
They halted on the crest of the vine-covered slope overlooking the villa. The courtyard below was bustling with servants unloading a wagon that sagged from the weight of baggage. The east wing of the building was a hive of activity. Behind wide-flung shutters, house servants scurried carrying clean linen and removing covers from furniture. Gwenhwyfar caught sight of Ygrainne hurrying past a first-floor window.
“I expect she is in a right bad humour,” Bedwyr remarked, noticing her also. “My aunt dislikes unexpected visitors.”
Or anything that upsets the flow of her dull, orderly life. Tactfully, Gwenhwyfar kept the words to herself.
Ygrainne was a woman who was kindly to the sick, generous to the poor, but a woman devoid of warmth. Years of bitterness had deprived her of the glow that once had shone in her eyes. Her life was now devoted to God, leaving no room for anyone else.
Ygrainne never showed affection – not to her nephew, Bedwyr; her brother-by-law, his father, or anyone else. She had greeted Gwenhwyfar on the afternoon of her arrival cordially, accepting the girl’s urgent need for sanctuary, providing it out of respect for Cunedda. They had kissed briefly, Ygrainne’s lips cold and impersonal on Gwenhwyfar’s cheek. That had been the first and only physical contact. Used to the warmth and spontaneous affection of brothers and father, Gwenhwyfar ached for the reassurance of fond hugs and sudden whirls of loving laughter.
From Ygrainne’s attitude to Bedwyr, Gwenhwyfar could see how distance had grown between the woman and her only son, Arthur. Bedwyr was clothed, fed, educated and disciplined. He had all a boy could wish for, save love. He had loved Arthur above all things. Desperate, both of them, for affection, it was no wonder Bedwyr and Gwenhwyfar became close friends. If Ygrainne noticed the shining love Bedwyr gave to Cunedda’s daughter, she gave no sign of it. Gwenhwyfar suspected the woman was relieved. With another to shoulder the responsibility of the boy her conscience was salved.
Yet Ygrainne was a fair woman. Short-tempered and impatient with incompetence, she was nevertheless quick to praise and reward hard work. Towards misdeeds by servants she was fair with punishment, never harsh or unjust. In the worship of her God, however, she was strict regarding rules and obedience, expected the same from her household.
Supervising the opening of the rarely used wing, Ygrainne sighed with intense irritation. She tucked a stray wisp of silvered hair back beneath her veil. How like her son to arrive like this, unannounced and unexpected. Not even an advance warning when the ship docked. He could have sent a messenger, but na, not him. He had waited aboard until the baggage was unloaded and travelled with the wagon. Did he do these things from lack of consideration, or spite? Herself, she was not a vindictive person, not intentionally, but Arthur? She sighed a second time; somehow, his presence always managed to raise evil ideas.
Ygrainne compressed her lips. He had generously stated as he entered the villa, it mattered not if his apartments in this wing were not aired. As if she could expect him to sleep on a bed with no linen, in an uncleaned room with stale air. He had waved aside her startled alarm at his arrival, saying to be home was reward enough. He was the bane of her life. Comfort might not matter to him, but he had brought his wife with him, what of her? How degrading to be caught in this state of disorder.
Crossing herself, Ygrainne mumbled a short line of holy verse to stifle unbidden words of hatred. During His time on this earth Jesu had said love thine enemy. She fingered the gold crucifix hanging at her waist with the chain of keys dangling there, then closed her eyes in swift prayer. The words of the good Lord were so difficult to put into practice at times. She breathed deeply, turned to watch a servant spreading a sheet upon the bed. With a cry she darted forward and snatched it aside.
“Who laundered this? Look, here, look at this stain!” Pointing, Ygrainne indicated the offending mark, threw the sheet to the floor. “Fetch a clean one, girl – hurry! Think you Lady Winifred would not have noticed?” Damn her. Damn him!
She marched from the wing, her shoes tapping on the wooden floor. They were waiting in the living quarters, taking light refreshment.
Arthur was laughing as she entered, sharing some jest with Ectha. Ygrainne swept into the room. “We need more wine, brother-by-law,” she said with stiff politeness. Ectha exchanged a suitably chastened look with Arthur, then fetched a new jug.
Bedwyr whooped loudly as he careered at a gallop down the sloping track. Gwenhwyfar hesitated. Impulsively she shouted, “I will be along soon. I have an errand.”
He heard; raised an arm, but did not stop. The pony’s hooves sent a spray of gravel showering into the air as Bedwyr slithered to a halt and leapt from the saddle. Ygrainne appeared and ushered the boy inside. By the way her hand gripped his dust-encrusted tunic Gwenhwyfar guessed she was scolding him. She glanced at her own clothing. Skirt, cut and sewn to form loose riding bracae, which fell in modest folds when she was not mounted. It was a compromise; Ygrainne would not allow her to wear male gear even for riding. The ill-fitting tunic she wore hung baggy about her top half, and her favourite worn cloak was becoming grubby. The hem, she noted, was torn.
Mastering her mare’s reluctance to turn away from stable and feed, she trotted back along the hill track. Gwenhwyfar did not want to return to the villa, did not want to discard these friendly clothes for formal Roman dress. Nor have her hair bound and styled. Rebelliously she tugged at the braids coiled about her head, let the copper hair tumble loose and free.
She kicked Seren with her heels, lengthening the stride of a reluctant canter into a reckless gallop. The mare, resigned to the change of direction, responded eagerly, stretched her neck and flew. They plunged through a copse, out and up on to the heath, where the wind stung Gwenhwyfar’s eyes to tears. Hair and cloak billowed behind, streaming like some giant bird, exultant, escaping, for a brief while at least, the confines of a cage.
Blowing hard, Seren eventually began to slow, dropped to a walk. Gwenhwyfar loosened the reins, let her amble and snatch at mouthfuls of grass. Saliva dribbled green as Seren chewed round the iron bit, snatched for more grass. They ha
d circled, were close by the banks of the Ligre river. The slow water was turning gold as the lowering sun coloured its surface. A few fishermen were beginning to make their way down to the estuary for their night’s work. By first light, the market in town would be brimming with fresh-caught seafood. The last swifts darted above, hunting insects, their high-pitched cries rising and falling with their whirling, flashing dance.
Gwenhwyfar wondered if the summer birds had left Gwynedd yet. Was the weather mild there also? Ygrainne would be angry with her for not returning with Bedwyr.
Some of her tears were not from the wind alone. She slid from the mare’s back, burrowed her head into the black mane. How could she face him? How could she make polite conversation, entertain and dine – sit alongside him? How, knowing all the while he was committed to a wife, and happen a child also by now?
She had thought the anger was gone, the desperate feeling of betrayal eased, but shards of broken dreams remained like shattered pieces of glass dropped on a marble floor. Self-pity had found time enough to weave a snare of despair and hopelessness; time to mix with an ample portion of jealousy, to breathe the sulphur fumes of hatred.
Gwenhwyfar remembered the details a young boy misses: Arthur’s eyes, shining hawk eyes that gleamed when he spoke of things dear to his heart. Eyes that darkened when something displeased him. Eyes that could see uninhibited into your heart and mind. His voice, his hair, his smell. How he bubbled with excitement, hurried to get things done, to get where he was going. Remembered a promise.
What was a promise anyway? Nought but words. Words spoken in childhood.
He must have known Cunedda had annulled that awful arranged marriage with Melwas. Surely he knew? Of course he did! The news would have been all across the country after her flight. There must have been one hell of a row, with Vortigern and Melwas powerless to do anything about it. So why had Arthur still married the bitch?
Even if there were reasons, rational, good reasons why he could not marry with Gwenhwyfar, need he have taken someone else quite so soon?
The sea crossing and those lonely, lost first weeks had been made bearable by her conviction someone would come – Arthur himself – to fetch her home, to promise her Melwas would never have her, that things would be all right. But no one came, save the traders with news of his marriage.
Weeks slid by. Weeks turned to months, months to a year. Now he had come, but now it was too late. A year too late. The remnants of hope had fluttered, ragged, in a gusting wind of passing time, were crumbled to dust.
She had no way of knowing the tide of events had run too swiftly for Arthur, that he too had been caught in the pull of a fast flooding current and was held there, adrift without any means of steering himself free.
Stroking the white star on the mare’s forehead, Gwenhwyfar felt rising anger. How dare he come to taunt her like this! Did he think it amusing? Was he laughing at her? Well, she would soon strike that smile from his face.
Her green eyes had coloured storm dark. She brushed the tears from her cheeks, pinching the skin to hide the blotching. Vaulting into the saddle, she turned Seren for home.
As she crested the rise behind the villa another thought struck her with such force she almost reeled. She hauled Seren to a halt, the mare tossing her head and flattening her ears from the discomfort of a jabbing bit.
There had been no word from Britain for some weeks. Not even wild rumour; for all they knew, Vortigern could be rotting in his grave. Or this Saex bitch Winifred. Could she be dead? Many a woman died in childbirth. Death made no distinction between rich, poor, peasant or princess. Had Arthur come because he had not forgotten; was here to take her home at last?
The seed of an idea was planted and germinated. It flourished and grew.
The mare required no urging with the smell of home in her nostrils. With each long stride of the horse’s gallop, the visions increased. Arthur pacing angrily, demanding servants be sent to search for her. He would have banged through all the rooms, bellowing her name, marched to the stables – questioned Bedwyr. She would ride into the courtyard, he would run down the steps from the villa, swing her into his arms…
Gwenhwyfar trotted beneath the archway, through the open gate. Slid, breathless, from Seren her face glowing with anticipation. Where was he? A stable slave appeared. Not Arthur. Ygrainne hurried from the villa, her face creased with suppressed anger. Her words shrill.
“Gwenhwyfar! Where have you been? You are so untrustworthy, girl! My son has arrived with his wife. Make yourself presentable and see Lady Winifred is settled in her rooms. Lord in His Heaven knows what I shall do if the babe she carries comes early.”
For Gwenhwyfar, everything chilled to silence. She saw Ygrainne’s lips moving, heard the words but they held no meaning for her. Ygrainne stepped irritably forward, took her arm and began to shake it. Gwenhwyfar stared numbly at Ygrainne’s hand, watched it shake, heard her reprimand as if it came from a great distance. She stood unmoving, as if carved from stone.
With the rushing noise of a torrential waterfall sensation returned. Ygrainne’s angry voice, the slave waiting to take the mare.
“This is as unexpected for me as it is for you, Gwenhwyfar,” Ygrainne was saying; “must you take all evening to think upon it? Give those reins to the slaves and get yourself cleaned and tidied.”
Ygrainne tutted, fingered Gwenhwyfar’s straggling loose hair. “Look at you. You are like some beggar’s brat, are not fit to be presented to my son and his wife!”
Habit led Gwenhwyfar to her room, changed her dress, washed her face and combed her hair. The daily routine of washing and dressing. Her hands went through the motions, but her mind was blank.
Ceridwen appeared, chattering excitedly; she always looked radiant, Ceridwen. Clicking her tongue she waved a slave forward to take up the task of washing off the dirt and sweat, and to tidy Gwenhwyfar’s hair. Gwenhwyfar found herself perfumed and robed in fine garments; her hair styled. Her jewels were fastened in her ears, around her neck and wrists, pinned to her shoulder. Ceridwen talked of Arthur, his wife, the baggage they had brought, the pleasant surprise of their coming.
And all the while, four words crashed and echoed around in Gwenhwyfar’s head. Four words heavy with meaning. The babe she carries.
Arthur was reclining on a couch with Bedwyr squatting beside him. The boy’s face glowed. Eyes sparkling with pleasure, he plied him with one question after another, mostly about men and horses, and the unrest of the Saex; battles, wounds, weapons. A hundred things. He did think to ask about Cei, was satisfied with a statement that his brother was well.
Seated opposite, Winifred sat erect and silent, lips pressed thin. Both she and Arthur looked up as Gwenhwyfar entered the room. Both pairs of eyes widened in naked surprise. For differing reasons.
Gwenhwyfar was obliged to greet them formally. She walked tall and serene to Arthur as Lord, first. He had risen, stood waiting, his face a blank mask. She sank into a deep reverence, dipping her head, refusing to meet his eyes. If he should look into her own eyes, he would know. Would know her body shook, her heart hammered, and he must not know that. He must not discover how easy it was to humiliate her.
“Gwenhwyfar! I did not know you were still here – I assumed you had returned to Gwynedd. When I last heard from your father he indicated he would be sending for you. That was,” Arthur calculated rapidly, “sa, in the spring. Oh, get up.” He reached out and took her hands, intending to help her to her feet. She lifted her head, looked at him with a clear challenge of angry defiance. He let her go, as if stung by a bee.
“I have heard of no such wish from Gwynedd.” Gwenhwyfar was surprised, she had expected her voice to creak and squeak, but it came out calm. Quite regal.
“How are you?” he asked, his own voice neutral, formal, without warmth. “You look well, though thinner than when last I saw you.”
Winifred’s guttural accent interrupted. “Gwenhwyfar carried much puppy fat as I recall.”
Wit
h a sweet smile, glad of the excuse to turn away from Arthur, Gwenhwyfar walked over to Winifred, dipped a second reverence. “Were we not all burdened by indulgence as children? It is for the woman grown to form a pleasing figure.” Gwenhwyfar smiled, her gaze drawn to the bulge of Winifred’s pregnancy. She bent forward to place a light kiss of greeting on each of Winifred’s cold, artificially coloured cheeks.
Arthur’s wife had not missed the barb in the reply. At this late stage of pregnancy she had no figure, did not need reminding of the ungainliness of her condition.
Arthur had seated himself, and indicated for Gwenhwyfar to do the same. She selected a stool placed well away from either of them. There was a moment’s uneasy silence, broken as Arthur asked, “You are comfortable here, at the villa?”
“Thank you, yes. Your mother has made me most welcome.” They spoke in elegant, formal Latin.
Bedwyr, silenced when Gwenhwyfar had entered, began his questioning again. Arthur laughed, rumpled his hair. “Lad, do you never stop?” Answered, as well as he could.
Gwenhwyfar was grateful for the boy’s chatter.
As she had answered Arthur that last time, his eyes had sought hers – those hawk eyes, so hard to read unless you understood the mind that lay behind them. Something she had seen there unnerved her, shook the rigid self-control she was struggling to maintain. She had seen pain there, and a great sadness.
What was this Bedwyr was saying?
“Arthur has been wounded, Gwen. He was nearly killed, nearly lost his leg!” The boy was at her side now. “He has come home so we can help him grow strong again.”
Arthur laughed, amused at the boy’s exaggeration. “Nonsense. I was never that badly wounded – and I am quite strong already. I cannot ride for a while, that is all. Rather than idle away my days in some stuffy building I decided to come and see how Ectha here is coping with the estate, and how much deeper my mother has committed herself to the Christ God.”
The Kingmaking Page 31
