The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Livila’s worn teeth clicked in her slack jaw. “It be the way. Men will not rest or give damage time to heal. See here where this flesh be bruised? The muscle beneath be torn.” She hissed as Arthur squirmed at her touch, face contorting in a fresh burst of pain. “Aye, lad, it hurts. You are fortunate, no further bones be broken, just unhealed muscles re-rattled.” She regarded him solemnly through age wrinkled eyes. “The surgeon who tended you has worked well. The bone has mended clean, it be these muscles we must tend to now. With rest and my salves you will soon fetch as good as new.”

  Arthur saw the old woman through a haze of red agony, swore under his breath. Damn them all. Rest – how could he rest?

  At some point during the early hours, utter exhaustion made seeing and doing automatic. Obediently Gwenhwyfar had held the lamp higher or lower, fetched, carried, passed bandages as Livila requested. The room and the people within were distant, fogged. Arthur had been given a sleeping draught, commanded by Livila’s stern threats to swallow. As dawn approached he slept on. Cynan was curled on a pallet on the other side of the room, snoring gently. Livila had gone to her own given place.

  The sky paled from black to the dull grey of a clouded winter’s dawn. Numb, cramped and exhausted almost beyond endurance, Gwenhwyfar slept where she had last sat, on a stool with head pillowed on her arms resting on the bed. She stirred, raised her head, found Arthur watching her. His skin glistened with sweat, his eyes burnt bright with fever, but at least he was conscious and aware.

  “Did I ever tell you,” he croaked, “you are so, very, very beautiful?”

  “And did I ever tell you, Arthur Pendragon,” she replied, wondering that she had enough energy to speak, “you are a bastard?”

  Arthur smiled weakly and fumbled for her hand. “Frequently.”

  XV

  Rowena’s son was a greedy boy, always suckling at her. Now his first birthday was well behind them and his teeth nearly all formed, she would need to consider his weaning.

  Her father handed her a cloth to wipe the boy’s mouth, said with a grunt of disapproval, “Your mother had a wet-nurse to feed the childer.”

  Rowena smiled indulgently at her son as she sat him on her lap. Her mother had not lost the babies she had birthed. “Vitolinus is special, Father. I enjoy feeding him with my milk. Jute milk, not British watered muck.”

  Hengest laughed, took his grandson from her and seating himself, began bouncing the child on his lap.

  “You will have him vomit, he has a full belly.”

  “Ah, but he likes it,” Hengest chuckled as the boy gurgled and demanded more.

  “All the same,” Rowena warned.

  Reluctantly her father gave ground and, snuggling the boy in his arms, carried him to the cot, laid him down and tenderly covered him. “Hush, my little son of Woden, go you to sleep so you may grow fine and strong like your grandfather.”

  Rowena indicated the slave might clear away the mess of feeding and changing a child, waited until the girl had left and she was alone with her father before saying, “I had a second letter from Winifred yesterday.”

  Hengest turned his head towards her, straightened himself from rocking the cradle. “Has she found enough sense to tell us of the Pendragon’s movements?”

  Rowena shook her head, took up her spindle. “She writes only of her unhappiness. She says the babe was a girl. It died.” Rowena shook her head again sadly. Was death also to follow her grandchildren?

  Hengest made no reply. Winifred had been a spoilt child; he had no time for her whining and demanding, nor for her constant changes of mind.

  “She says Arthur has her close watched. Ygrainne’s Roman priest managed to send this letter, as with the first, in secret,” Rowena said.

  Wrinkling his nose, Hengest resisted the urge to spit. Christians! Bah, weakling sentimentalists!

  He wandered around the room, this semi-resplendent royal room. Bronzes, tapestries, fine furniture; none of it hid cracked ceiling and mould-spotched walls – or stopped the draughts. Woden’s breath, but his wattle-built Hall was in better condition than this decaying Londinium palace.

  “How much longer will Vortigern be?” he asked impatiently. “Considering he asked to see me, I am not pleased to wait like this.”

  Rowena vaguely flapped a hand. “I expect he has been delayed.” Her hands had never returned to their former slimness; too many pregnancies had left them puffed and misshapen, the fingers slow to respond. Spinning and needlework were becoming difficult tasks for her lately. She set the spindle down, rubbed the ache in her knuckles. “He will come soon, Father. You heard, I assume, there was an attempt on his life a few days past?”

  Folding his arms, Hengest nodded, frowning. “The man was caught and tortured, I hear, but would not reveal who hired him.”

  “You know nothing of it, I suppose?”

  Affronted, Hengest put his hand to his chest. “I most certainly do not! Until I am strong enough to not give a sow’s ear about who rules as king over the British, I prefer to follow the trail I know.” He found himself a seat, calmed his frayed temper. “Nay, it was not of my doing, daughter.” He spread his hands over his thighs, rubbed them up and down the woollen cloth of his bracae – this place was so cold. “Aside, a man of mine would have succeeded.”

  Walking across the room, Rowena poured herself apple juice, added a herbal remedy to keep the pain of joint-ache at bay. Said, as she took a sip, “My husband is convinced the Pendragon was behind it.”

  “That drunken whore-user? He’d not be able to stab a pig on slaughter day!”

  Rowena hesitated before answering, for her father had a low opinion of Arthur. He had argued savagely against Winifred marrying with him, and took pleasure in reminding Rowena of the objection whenever yet another trouble sent her daughter pleading for help. “I think you underestimate the Pendragon, Father,” she said carefully.

  “He is a boy playing at a man’s game.”

  Rowena held her tongue. Then why were men clamouring to join his command? She said, “Winifred wants to come home, she asks me to organise a ship. Do you think if I were to write to Arthur he…?”

  Hengest erupted to his feet, stamped across to stand before her, fists on hips, legs spread. “Woden’s Breath, Winifred is a woman grown and fully capable of seeing to her own concerns. She sowed the seeds and must now harvest the crop. The fact that only nettles have grown is her problem.”

  “But Father!”

  “The Pendragon needs her wealth to keep his head from sinking below the stink of his own drunken vomit. He’d never allow her out from behind his shield – and frankly, I don’t want her. She’s useless. She deserves to belong to that cock-crowing whore-cub. They deserve each other.” He turned away, reached for his cloak, and approaching the door, hand outstretched to open it, stopped surprised as it swung inward to reveal Vortigern standing there.

  “A cock-crowing whore-cub?” he said drily, entering the room. “You can only be talking of the Pendragon. Where he is concerned, Hengest, I try to remember that such creatures have spurs and are bred to fight. They need to be kept secure until needed in the pit.”

  Vortigern shut the door and crossed the room to kiss Rowena’s cheek, went next to peep at his sleeping son. “Unfortunately, one sure way to do so for this particular breed is to tether him by marriage to my daughter. I do not like having him so close, but life has a habit of kicking us in the balls, does it not?” He poured wine, sniffing suspiciously at the goblet before drinking.

  Hengest said wryly, “You are wary of poison then?”

  Vortigern shrugged, admitted, “I am even wary of my own shadow these days.”

  “Rowena says you think the Pendragon was behind this attempted murder?” Hengest said, accepting wine and resisting the temptation to smell it for poison before drinking.

  Vortigern glanced casually at the woman who had returned to her spinning. She made out she was the dutiful, loving wife, but he knew what she got up to and where her tr
ue interests lay. Rowena was her father’s daughter first, her son’s mother second, Queen third and loyal wife last. Vortigern seated himself more comfortably; the day had been long and tiring, and there was still much to do. How angry Rowena would be if she knew it was he who had made sure the Pendragon knew about Winifred fleeing to Hengest. He could not allow his daughter to go, any more than he would ever allow Rowena her freedom. The Pendragon had one good use. He saved Vortigern the bother of keeping an eye on Winifred.

  “Do you know,” Vortigern said into the silence, “how many of the Caesars were murdered by their own guard?”

  Hengest shook his head.

  Vortigern chuckled. “Neither do I in precise number, but too many, I am certain.”

  Hengest laughed with him, the small moment of cold ice thawing slightly. They warily respected each other, these two men; respected each other’s hold on power and authority, had no interest in the petty matter of like or dislike. Personal friendship lacked importance when running alongside survival. “It is a wise man who chooses his guard personally, and ensures they have reason to stay loyal.”

  Vortigern acknowledged the observation by raising his goblet, added, “Or by choosing those who have the better reason to keep him alive.” He motioned for his guest to sit. “My eldest sons fight me. My son-by-law will rejoice at my death – the list goes on. My Council disagrees with me as a matter of course – were I pronounced a saint, Council would still disagree with my decisions.” With an exasperated sigh he added, “It is a qualification for election, to disagree.” He regarded Hengest thoughtfully, this bull-muscled Jute who needed only to sound his war horn to bring keels by the dozen across the sea. As he would, one day soon. “You have sure reason to keep me king,” Vortigern said, pointing his finger knowingly at the man seated opposite him.

  Hengest feigned innocence. “It is a matter of honour for a Jute to serve his lord well.”

  “Pig swill! It is a matter of tactics. You know I will grant you all I can in return for loyal service from your men. Few British are willing to remain so loyal to me now; I can turn nowhere but to you, and for that you can ask whatever price you seek. Were either of my two eldest sons to take power, or, God forbid,” Vortigern shuddered, “the Pendragon, you would be kicked out of Londinium and the Isle of Tanatus as swift as would a dog jumping with fleas.”

  “Vortimer may hold sway over Council, I agree, but the others? I fear them not.”

  Vortigern leant forward, eyes slit, fierce. “Then you are not the wise commander I have taken you for all these years. The Pendragon playacts at his drinking and whoring, a leisurely pastime for him when there is nothing better to do. Give him a horse, a sword and a turma of men and he is a different man. Have you seen an adder basking in the sunshine, Hengest?” He waited for the man to nod. “Then you know full well how unwise it is to poke a serpent with a stick.”

  Hengest was not convinced. He finished his wine, stood. “This is all very interesting but I have many things to tend to. For what purpose did you ask me here? Surely not to talk of the Pendragon’s non-existent virtues?”

  “I want your men, and only your men, as my personal and palace guard, at least until the coming of spring.”

  Hengest was shocked but held the surprise in check. Things were bad for Vortigern then. “If I agree, what is there for me?”

  Smiling cynically the King answered, “Enough land to keep you and your people occupied until I am long dead and mouldered to dust. Probably enough to see you through until the coming of age of my youngest son here.”

  Hengest’s eyebrows rose. “That is a lot of land.”

  “I need a lot of protecting.”

  XVI

  Within Ygrainne’s Christian household the Roman Saturnalia was celebrated as the Nativity. In the solemn little chapel, Father Simon spoke the words of the Mass with feeling to his small congregation. Gwenhwyfar stood beside Ectha, dutifully murmuring her responses and accepting the holy communion of bread and wine.

  Christianity had so neatly sidestepped the pagan practices, conveniently encompassing the old festivals, with suitable modification, into its own belief. Saturnalia for instance, a pagan festival of laughter and celebration and for the giving of gifts; reminiscent for the Christians of the gifts given to the infant Jesu.

  Saturnalia, with the bringing of evergreens into the house as a reminder of the spring soon to come. Living green, bearing fruit amid the dark days of winter. As Mary bore Her Son during the darkness of sin. The pagan holly became the thorns placed on the head of the crucified Christ, its red berries the drops of blood on His forehead.

  Mistletoe, the fruit of fertility adopted as a symbol of His birth. So Gwenhwyfar worshipped the birth of Jesu, and began, like so many, to forget the old ways.

  Afterwards, Father Simon accompanied the family back along the mud-slushed pathway to the villa, escorting Winifred. She was an unexpected presence. Out of courtesy Gwenhwyfar, as acting headwoman, had invited her to share the family’s day, explaining politely they celebrated the birth of Christ in a modest manner. To her surprise, Winifred had accepted eagerly.

  Arthur’s wife had entered the chapel, sinking into a low reverence before the altar, ostentatiously flourishing a glittering gold crucifix and bejewelled rosary. Father Simon had greeted her enthusiastically, delighted to see her.

  Watching them, Gwenhwyfar thought the two seemed well acquainted. At the first opportunity she questioned the servants, discovered Father Simon had regularly attended the Lady Winifred while she had been confined with her illness following the birth, and death, of her child. Gwenhwyfar shrugged the matter aside; she cared little about Winifred or, for that matter, Father Simon.

  Late afternoon. The sky was darkening with the threat of more sleet. Gwenhwyfar entered Arthur’s chamber in search of Bedwyr. She laughed, the amusement spreading from full red lips to sparkling green eyes. He was seated beside Arthur, huddled beneath swathes of bed furs.

  Arthur was expounding some greatly embellished tale of battle. “Is it so cold in here?” she asked, indicating the fur mound.

  “It’s damn nigh cold enough to freeze my essentials off!” replied Arthur, grinning impishly. “I sent Bedwyr to find someone to replenish the braziers, but it seems the household is too busy with seasonal festivities to bother about a wounded soldier cursed with the indignity of being bound to his bed.”

  Gwenhwyfar prodded at the nearest brazier, ignoring his petulance. “More charcoal is needed, I shall send someone to see to it. Bedwyr, the meal is all but ready, run along to wash and change.”

  He protested loudly.

  “Suit yourself, stay with your cousin if you wish.” Gwenhwyfar turned to leave the room, paused. “Except,” she looked blandly at the two of them nestled cheerfully together, “if you choose to remain here, you will miss eating.”

  Aghast, the boy tumbled from the bed. Normally, he ate in the kitchens, only permitted to join the family for special occasions. He had no intention of missing a rare treat.

  “Hold!” Arthur bellowed as the boy scuttered across the wooden floor of the first-floor chamber. He pointed to a chest which stood beneath one of the small casement windows. “Look in there, lad.”

  Bedwyr trotted to it, flung the lid wide, dived on two packages rolled in cloth.

  “The largest is for you,” Arthur said, added, “Bring the smallest to me, please.”

  The boy did as he was asked, cradling his own prize in his arm, slipping the wrapped cloth from the concealed contents as Arthur relieved him of the smaller bundle. With a gasp of delight, Bedwyr brandished a sword, a real soldier’s sword save for the blunt edging.

  “It will do you for now, lad. When you are a man grown, come to me and I shall replace it with one a little sharper.”

  Bedwyr ran to Arthur and hugged him, clamouring his thanks, eyes shining with pride and pleasure. Then he dashed from the room eager to prepare for dinner and a chance to show his gift.

  Gwenhwyfar closed the doo
r muffling the sound of his retreating, delighted whoops. “Your mother will not be pleased at your choice of gift. She has no wish for him to become a fighting man.”

  Arthur snorted contemptuously. “I am well aware she has plans to see him in some holy profession. If that is what he wishes, then that is his choice. But,” he shoved the weight of heavy furs from his leg, “I may need every fighting man in a few years. I would rather have my cousin serving me, not God.” Drolly he added, “And it has harmed no potential holy man to have knowledge of wielding a sword. I have something for you. Come here.”

  She hesitated, a flutter of panic telling her to leave the room – now. Her heart beating fast, she stepped from the door, came to the side of his bed. He took her hand, gently but firmly, enclosing the soft whiteness within his own firm grasp.

  “You are trembling?” he asked softly.

  “You were right, this chamber is cold.” She kept her eyes downcast, studying the bright pattern of the woven bedcover peeping beneath the furs.

  “Are you afraid of me, Gwen?”

  She looked up at that, meeting his brown eyes. They watched her intently, cutting through any pretence as easily as looking at the world through clear glass.

  She answered truthfully, for few could lie to Arthur. “I am not afraid of you. I…” She halted, uncertain. She was not afraid, yet why did her heart beat so wildly? Why did the desire to run from the room overwhelm her?

  He placed the package in her hand, curled her fingers round it. “For you.”

  She glanced from him to the parcel, frowning curiously, and tentatively unwrapped it. Across her palm lay a woman’s slender dagger with carved ivory hilt set with jewels.

  “How did you come by this?” she breathed, not daring to believe, the happiness swelling within her.

  Arthur shrugged carelessly. “Oh, I came across it.”

  “I never thought to see it again!” Her words came faintly, barely audible, so deep was her happiness at having her mother’s dagger once again. A lump of emotion caught in her throat. She bit her lip, shook her head, willing herself not to cry like some immature child.