The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  December 454

  XIII

  Winter was proving bitter and merciless, with a cruel wind that blustered unceasingly, bending vegetation, man and beast before it and whipping the river into flurries of restless agitation. Rain drizzled or soaked alternately; and tempers flared as easily as a spark to dry heath. Gwenhwyfar stayed as much as possible in the seclusion of her room, some days not leaving her bed until near noon. Her hair, if Ceridwen had not fussed, would have been left unwashed and uncombed. She dressed haphazardly, uncaring, for there seemed little point to anything, even life itself.

  Iawn had gone with Arthur into Gaul. Ceridwen missed him terribly. She had tried to chirrup brightly at first but Gwenhwyfar’s dull depression seemed catching.

  Winifred had been left behind. Fortunately for the household, she had taken to her bed after the birthing of a sickly daughter. Quite the ugliest child Winifred had ever seen. It must be some jest, some horrendous joke that Arthur had played upon her, for she had been so certain she carried a son. This mewling and puking girl-child with sallow yellow skin and squinting, crossed eyes was surely not hers? She could not have borne this, this – thing! There was no grief when the creature died. Few expected a child born on the Dark Night of Samhain to live for long.

  The days passed, turned to weeks, and they awaited Arthur’s return, knew he would return some time before the Nativity.

  Winifred waited, relieved the brat was gone. She wanted to go home. She waited for Arthur, hoping he would allow her to go, now there was no son to bind them.

  Bedwyr, lonely and bored, awaited his cousin with excitement and expectation; Ygrainne, with the hope that spring would come early and Arthur would return to his men and take Winifred with him. Gwenhwyfar? She did not want his coming back.

  He eventually arrived five days before the day of Christ’s birth celebration, his coming throwing the household into renewed upheaval. To Ygrainne’s intense annoyance he brought with him the eldest son of Aegidius, King of Gaul. Clutching her rosary of fine carved cedar, she sought the calm company of Father Simon, who tended the villa’s small chapel.

  “Feelings of alarm and anger are natural, my daughter,” he said, setting a tender hand on her bowed head. “All God’s children say and think careless things which come to mind in moments of weakness.”

  For the first and only time Ygrainne felt her belief waver. Did this man truly understand her feelings for this son of hers? She had been tending the hypocaust stokehole when Arthur had arrived. The brickwork had become worn and crumbled, the slaves too ignorant to use sense in the clearing of it, she had needed to supervise the work herself. How like Arthur to arrive at an inconvenient moment! With soot on her face and grime on her hands she had to welcome Syagrius, a prince! Damn Arthur to Hell! He had made no apology, had sat his horse amid the bustle of armed escort and baggage as if everything was normal. Normal! She had met his gaze as he sat there unconcerned – and his look had frightened her.

  The words of the priest’s muttered blessing drifted past her. She knew those deep, dark eyes, the eyes of a man who had once loved her so. No, not Arthur’s eyes, Uthr’s. Tears slid down her pinched cheeks as the painful memories came – memories she had long since locked away under the protection of God’s shield. She had loved Uthr, loved his tenacity for life, his determination to succeed. Loved him enough to follow him willingly to the edge of the earth. Uncomplaining, unflustered, heavy with child, she had faced those mountainous seas and an uncertain future for him, for Uthr. And Arthur had looked at her this afternoon with those same eyes, Uthr’s eyes. But that look he had given her carried no love, no tenderness. Only loathing and contempt.

  It had not been her fault. She had seen the sense in hiding her newborn son’s identity, understood at the time of his birthing the threat of Vortigern, whose power spread wider in those days. Uthr was safe enough in exile but would he have remained safe if the tyrant had known of an heir? So she had agreed to the pretence of her son’s death, sure in the knowledge it would only be for a while, until other sons came. But months stretched to years and there was no other son. She mourned that only one, the son she had never suckled or held; mourned, and accepted he was gone from her, to all purposes dead. Mourned, and turned to God for His wisdom and comfort. And Uthr had turned to Morgause.

  Father Simon had fallen silent, his prayer ended. Ygrainne kissed the hem of his gown, left the chapel and walked blindly into the settling night. She seated herself on a bench, pulling her cloak close against the harsh wind, looked towards the rear of the east wing, at the whitened plaster walls peeping through the darkness of the evergreens. Lamps had been lit, their glow filtering through the cracks of closed shutters. Uthr had never discovered that once, long, long ago, she had sat in this very spot and seen him through the open ground-floor window, loving with Morgause.

  Sitting here, nursing her memories, Ygrainne realised Uthr had never questioned her turning to God for solace. He had been a demanding man, a man who took what he needed when he needed it. But he had never forced himself on her and, after the girl-children she bore also died, respected her not wanting him in her bed. Arthur hated her for the love she was unable to give, and Uthr had gone to Morgause for the necessities of manhood because he loved her, Ygrainne, so much. Both things so hard, so unbearably hard to accept.

  They searched the villa for Ygrainne when she did not appear for the evening meal. Gwenhwyfar found her slumped, jaw slack and dribbling, beside the garden bench. Down Ygrainne’s cheek tears glistened in frosted tracks.

  XIV

  Ectha sat numb with disbelief at the shock of Ygrainne’s illness. He nursed an untouched goblet of wine between chilled hands, staring vacantly into space. Slave and servant crept about their duties clearing the remains of a barely touched dinner, quietly awaiting further orders.

  Gwenhwyfar was seated to the far side of the room, alone with her thoughts.

  Syagrius cleared his throat, his voice loud in the stillness as he said, “I have instructed my servant to seek alternative lodgings in town on the morrow.”

  Arthur began to protest but Syagrius silenced him. “With your mother taken ill it would be inconceivable for me to intrude further.”

  Ectha summoned a weak smile. “The household has been put to no trouble. Gwenhwyfar is more than capable of running things, are you not, my dear?”

  She nodded polite agreement, careful not to let her reluctance show. The acceptance of responsibility was as necessary as a warm mantle in winter, but she would wear it as heavy as she wore the weight of exile. Ectha assumed she would step into Ygrainne’s place and organise the villa’s daily needs with as much efficiency. She had not the heart, or conscience, to refuse him.

  She said now, aware of her duties, “You are most welcome to stay; happen company would be a good diversion at this moment.”

  He smiled warmly, stood and formally bowed. “I thank you, but arrangements are in hand. My business on behalf of my father will take but a short while.” His smile widened as he stepped forward to take Gwenhwyfar’s hand in his own, raised it to his lips. “I accepted Arthur’s offer to stay here as an excuse to meet you, Lady Gwenhwyfar.”

  She blushed. He was no more than ten and five years, not even a man yet, with barely a need to shave those fine hairs more than once in the week. Yet here he was, with the self-assurance and expectation of full manhood.

  His intimate gaze reflected all he implied, and more. Gwenhwyfar pulled tentatively to free her hand, but he held it firm.

  “I must state,” he said blithely, “Arthur did not speak the full truth of you.”

  She glanced briefly at Arthur who was sprawled along a couch frowning, interested of a sudden in his fingernails.

  Syagrius had seated himself beside her on the couch, moved closer. She could feel his body, young and muscular, very intent, through the fine stuff of her gown. He still had hold of her hand.

  “Arthur told me you were fair, but not that you were a Venus. I wished to s
ee for myself the dazzling green eyes and spun copper hair he speaks of.”

  “Oh?” Gwenhwyfar was flustered. She tried again to release her hand, moving away as far as Syagrius would allow. “Has he then mentioned me? He has not spoken over-many bad things about me, I trust?”

  “Mentioned you?” Syagrius laughed, his fingers gripping tighter, his eyes never straying from her face. “He talks of no one else! A’tween you and me,” he dropped his voice, but deliberately not too low, “I believe he has a bit of a problem.”

  He looked shrewdly at Arthur who glowered back. “He has a wife whom he dislikes intensely. Assuredly a mistaken marriage.”

  Arthur laughed, the sound striking harsh behind its falsity. He swung his legs to the floor, limped to Syagrius’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Gwenhwyfar took the opportunity to reclaim her own hand.

  “My dear boy,” Arthur said, forcing amusement. “How you do exaggerate. I mentioned my mother’s guest but once. I doubt our dear Gwenhwyfar will take kindly to such obvious flirtation. By the Bull, how these unwhelped boys expect to shed innocence early these days!”

  “I can assure you, friend,” replied Syagrius, addressing Arthur but refusing to look away from Gwenhwyfar, “I shed my innocence of women many months past.”

  Gwenhwyfar, though, was bridling. “And why, Arthur Pendragon, would I not appreciate a man’s flattery? I am a free woman of marriageable age, I have no tie of betrothal.” She smiled radiantly at Syagrius. “And,” she added pointedly, “I once said I intended to fly high. Who has a wingspan to rival the future king of Gaul?”

  Syagrius raised his eyebrows quizzically, not quite understanding. “None, Lady, even the Legions of the Eagles can no longer soar above my father’s power and soon, my own.” He grinned suddenly, aware something in the game had altered here, that Gwenhwyfar was no longer backing away from him, but responding to his courting. God’s favour, he could scarcely believe his luck. Could she be interested in him? Well, why not? As she had said, she was a free woman, and he had to seek a suitable wife one day. But Gwenhwyfar? Dare he seriously try for her?

  With a forced laugh, Arthur motioned their guest to his feet, steered him for the door. “We have been travelling since dawn, my lad, and the household seems as weary. It is time we retired to our beds.” He gestured good night to Ectha and Ceridwen.

  Syagrius, on the point of protesting, changed his mind as Arthur’s elbow jabbed him sharply in the ribs. Sweeping a bow he said to Gwenhwyfar, “It seems I am dismissed, Lady. I bid you a fond good night.”

  Boldly he returned across the room, tipped up her face with his fingers and brushed her lips lightly with his own. His taste was pleasant, sweet and soft. Lingering.

  Stunned, Gwenhwyfar watched him leave, ushering an equally astonished Arthur before him. Heard him say, “Well do I understand your feeling for her now, Arthur. She is…” She heard no more, for the door had closed.

  The room spun; she must see about watering the wine more on the morrow!

  Well do I understand your feeling for her now, Arthur! Why had Syagrius said that? What had he meant? Confusion whirled with the dizziness of strong wine and tiredness. Arthur had ignored her, almost to the point of rudeness, and yet his hostility to Syagrius’s boyish flirting was acute. Gwenhwyfar sighed – so many snarled tangles. Wearily, she pushed herself to her feet, telling the servants to seek their beds. “Come, Ectha, you must go to your bed also. A mild sleeping draught would do no harm,” she advised.

  Ectha’s personal slave nodded his agreement. He noted her reddened, tired eyes. “I shall see to him, Lady. Such a draught would not come amiss for you also?”

  Gwenhwyfar shook her head. “Na, but I thank you for your concern. Ectha,” she had to shake the man slightly to gain his attention, “Father Simon is with Ygrainne, she is well tended.”

  Lost in his worry and shock, Ectha seemed dazed and confused. Gwenhwyfar smiled reassurance, said, “She is a strong woman and will be well in a few days. The physician said it was only a weakness of the spirit; a warning that she must ease on the way she pushes herself.”

  The blankness on Ectha’s face remained. His slave placed his hands protectively on his master’s shoulders. “He is most fond of his brother’s wife. As we all are.”

  A shout of alarm followed immediate by a crash echoed through the house, coming from the far end of the open corridor outside. Gwenhwyfar ran, at her heels Ectha’s slave and Ceridwen, followed by startled servants.

  Arthur lay crumpled in a heap at the foot of the stairway. Syagrius stood at the top.

  One hand extended, half afraid to touch, Gwenhwyfar crouched beside Arthur. Was he dead?

  Syagrius hurtled down the short but steep flight of stairs, squatted beside her. His face was chalk white. He spoke in short bursts, breath coming fast. “He was angry. I was teasing him. I meant no harm. He just slipped and fell. I did not touch him, I swear!”

  “No one is saying you did,” Gwenhwyfar replied calmly.

  A sigh of relief swept through the group of peering servants as Arthur’s eyes flickered open. He groaned, swore.

  “Be still, do not try to move.” Gwenhwyfar rested a hand on his arm.

  He looked up at her, his face contorted with pain. “I have no bloody intention of moving, woman!” He was sweating profusely. When Gwenhwyfar touched his hand, the skin felt cold and clammy.

  Ectha’s slave sent someone scurrying for a blanket, another to fetch Cynan, Arthur’s own servant. Ceridwen picked up her skirts, and shouting, ran for Iawn who appeared some moments later with three of Arthur’s guard. “What has happened?” he panted.

  “Arthur has fallen,” Gwenhwyfar explained, allowing room for Iawn to examine his commander. When the leg was touched Arthur yelled. Iawn straightened, worried, and ran a hand through his fair hair. “Seems that leg has been damaged again. It has been bad all this while. Best send for the physician, my Lady.”

  Gwenhwyfar herself groaned, leant back against the wall, closed her eyes a moment to let the world spin by. “He will not appreciate being sent for twice in one night.”

  “I need no physician so urgently he must leave his bed.” Arthur’s protest was made with eyes shut and held breath. “Get me to my room, I shall do well enough ‘til morning. He is coming to see Ygrainne again then, is he not?”

  Iawn and Gwenhwyfar, echoed by the servants, disagreed with the idea vehemently.

  Teeth clamped, Arthur attempted to haul himself upright, pain tearing through the tortured muscles of his damaged thigh. “See, I am all right,” he gasped. “I am in no urgent need of the physician.”

  “Very well.” Realising his stubbornness would have it no other way, Gwenhwyfar gestured to four of the men to raise him. “Take him to my chamber – it is the nearest.”

  Syagrius watched them slowly climb the stairs. He stood stiffly against the wall, ashen-faced and silent. Gwenhwyfar laid her hand on his arm. “It was not your fault, accidents happen. Get to bed, there is nothing more you can do this night.”

  “What of his wife? Should she not know of this?”

  “I doubt she is interested, but I shall send a servant to tell her.”

  “Gwenhwyfar.” He caught her arm as she turned to go. “I know I was teasing earlier, with those things I said, but,” he bit his lip, unsure what to say, “he thinks the world of you, but is too proud to admit it.”

  Gwenhwyfar smiled amicably. What did this boy know of things that had passed between herself and Arthur? “Get to bed,” she said again, not unkindly.

  Ceridwen held the door wide as they manoeuvred Arthur through and laid him on Gwenhwyfar’s bed. Father Simon appeared, anxiously enquiring if there was anything he could do. Servants clustered in the doorway twittering with concern.

  Tired, irritated by their combined uselessness Gwenhwyfar turned on them all. “The matter is in hand. I have all the help I require.”

  Cynan ran in, alarmed, his face shadowing; he was a trusted, rel
iable man, and Arthur regarded him highly. Efficiently he ushered spectators away, closed the door on them and hurried to his master’s side, where he began gently removing clothing.

  “He ought have the physician,” he said as he worked.

  “So we all say, save your master,” Gwenhwyfar retorted. “Ceridwen, can you fetch Livila? She may be old but her healing wisdom is great, Ygrainne has little faith in her, but she does well enough for the servants.”

  Cynan nodded his approval. “I hear she has skilful hands, enough to see us through this night at least.”

  Ceridwen touched Gwenhwyfar’s arm. “Is there ought else I can do?” she asked.

  “You can help by getting yourself to bed – and looking in on Bedwyr to see he sleeps sound. Go, get yourself to your husband.”

  With eight brothers Gwenhwyfar had seen male nakedness often. She had seen Arthur, the boy, undressed many times in Gwynedd; how often had they swum naked in sea or river, or helped clean each other in Cunedda’s small apology for a bathhouse? Seeing him lying vulnerable upon her own bed, holding out against the pain of Livila’s administrations, Gwenhwyfar saw a different person, saw him for the first time as a man. Male genitalia meant little, no more than a stallion’s equipment or a dog’s. She had known from an early age what it was for, had seen males of a species mounting females. Watching now, tense, weary, frightened and muddled, she found her gaze drawn repeatedly to his maleness, its significance starkly taunting.

  He had a wife. Had lain with her, taken his pleasure with her and given her his child. Why had he reacted to Syagrius? God’s truth, but her head ached!

  Livila demanded her attention, asking for light to be brought closer; she fetched another lamp and set it on a side table. How thin Arthur was, she realised with a start. Muscles slack against taut flesh, bones gaunt. It had not shown so starkly in his face.

  As if reading her thoughts, Cynan said, “My Lord has lost much weight since the accident. He has fretted to be about his life, but this thigh is stubborn to mend.”