The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Scarcely able to contain her delight, Winifred shook her head, pathetic in her self-pity. “None can help me.” Then a sudden idea. “Wait, there is something! If I could get a letter to my father. He will know what I must do.” She had decided against her mother this time. Two letters sent and no hint of a response to her pleading.

  Crossing quickly to her writing desk, Winifred made a pretence of searching, found a small parchment scroll. “I wrote this some months past,” she lied. “Arthur refused to allow its sending, though I openly showed it to him.” She unrolled it. “It says nothing untoward, speaking only of our child’s birth and taking, of my health. Nothing that should not be said. I end by asking the King to arrange for me to come home.”

  She thrust the parchment towards the girl and Fidelia made a pretence of scrutinising the neat lettering. It was upside down. As Winifred had expected, the girl could not read.

  She was uncertain what she wanted to do, between seeing Arthur and Gwenhwyfar torn to pieces by horses, roasted alive on spits or disembowelled slowly with a blunt-edged knife. Perhaps a taste of all three? Whatever death awaited those two, she must first get home.

  She took the letter back, rolled it and secured it. Safer not to place a seal. It was a pity she could not ask Father Simon to send another letter, but no, best to use the girl this time, though she seemed hesitant. Seeing her doubt, Winifred opened the jewel casket again, placed a bracelet on the table. “Of course, such loyal friendship deserves reward.”

  Fidelia eyed the wonderful rubies and diamonds. If she sold it, she could ensure a life of considerable comfort; could do better than a sheep-herd for husband. Yet if she should be discovered it would be a whipping and dismissal from service – at the very least.

  Casually, Winifred added a pair of earrings, said, coaxing, “These items are worth much gold, Fidelia. Think what you could do with gold coin.” She took a second bracelet. “This is to pay for the cost of carrying the letter; its value should exceed what is required. You shall, of course, keep any excess.”

  Winifred paused a moment, made to retrieve the items. “I ask too much of you.”

  Fidelia grabbed at Winifred’s hand. “Lady, you do not! I shall see to it your letter is sent.” She stowed the jewellery in her pouch, the parchment safe between her breasts, and scampered from the room.

  Winifred went to the window. She smiled at the drizzle-wet hill sloping beyond, drummed her nails on the wood. “Make a fool of me, Arthur Pendragon? We shall see who laughs the louder.”

  Soon, when her letter found its way safe, Vortigern would demand Arthur’s recall; they would be going home and his little game of illicit love would be ended.

  XX

  Juliana looked sideways at Gwenhwyfar, who sat with legs swinging on the edge of the kitchen table, and playfully slapped the hand creeping nearer the dough she was kneading. “You be too old, young miss, for sneaking bits from my baking.”

  Gwenhwyfar laughed. “Never will I be too old!”

  There was silence for a while. Gwenhwyfar began to hum a lilting melody; Juliana pounded her wheat bread. The grain had lasted well this winter, stored in the new granary Gaius had built last spring, she was thinking. She said, “And what will you do when his wife discovers all this?”

  Gwenhwyfar ceased her tune.

  “She will, you know. You cannot hide from it. One day you will have to face up to the fact he has a legal wife.”

  “He is to divorce her.”

  “Ah.”

  Silence again. Juliana pounded at her dough, flour covering her arms.

  “What do you mean, ah?”

  Patting the dough into shape, Juliana set it aside to rise, dusted her hands, wiped the table clean.

  “Do you know why he married her in the first place, my dear?” she asked mildly.

  “He was forced into it by Vortimer as a safeguard against her marriage to one of her own kind.”

  Juliana nodded. “I heard that rumour also.”

  Gwenhwyfar bridled, jumped from the table. “Are you suggesting Arthur has lied to me? That he took her willingly?”

  “He was not unwilling, was he? He needed funds, child. Needed that fat dowry.” At Gwenhwyfar’s scowl, the woman placed her hands flat on the table, leant forward. “Lass, neither of you has stopped to consider this thing through.”

  “We have!”

  Shaking her head Juliana measured out fresh flour, began mixing ingredients for honeyed cakes. “The reasons of then, girl, still exist now. More so.”

  Gwenhwyfar snorted.

  Juliana wagged a spoon at her. “Arthur can no more divorce Winifred now than he could refuse to take her as wife then. It made sense for him to marry with her. He must become king, and as Pendragon and husband to Vortigern’s Saex born, he could take command of Britain and the Saex in one blow. There are many Saex who are not loyal to Hengest, those who were born and raised in Britain – as were their fathers. They are not loyal to Vortigern either, but the Pendragon? He is different, altogether different. And there are the practicalities. To become king, he needs her wealth; her title and her son to command the Saex. I say again, he cannot, will not divorce her.”

  Gwenhwyfar snorted louder. “What do you know of it?” She hoisted herself once more to sit on the table, folded her arms, sat hunched, hostile.

  Juliana was vigorously stirring her mixture. “It does not take much of a brain to work out the obvious.”

  “They detest each other. They have no relationship, no feeling, nothing.”

  “Yet, I hear, he still visits her bed.”

  Eyes flashing, “You have good hearing then!”

  “I have friends who are servants, child, and servants talk.”

  “He has not slept with her.”

  “And I say he has,” Juliana beat harder at her mixture. “He is the Pendragon, girl. He needs a son.”

  “I shall give him one.”

  In exasperation, Juliana slammed her spoon down on the table. “You talk like an ignorant peasant! You are his mistress, nothing more.” She took a handful of dough, began shaping round cakes between her plump red hands. “You will never be the mother of his heir. Winifred, for one, would never allow a bastard born of you to take precedence. La! I wish I had never allowed this thing to happen when it began. I ought have whipped the both of you and sent you away to Father Simon for the confession of your sins.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Gwenhwyfar shouted her retort, then slumped, miserable.

  Clicking her tongue, Juliana cleaned the sticky mixture from her hands, moved round the table and held her close as if she were a daughter.

  “Why did I not? Because I would rather have you where you are safe, not doing this silly thing in some open field or hidden bush where any could watch. Arthur is like a son to me. I have watched him grow from boy to man. I am proud of him. But la,” she cradled Gwenhwyfar to her, “I am not so proud of this mess.”

  Gwenhwyfar pulled a little away, close to tears. “Juliana, do not say such things. I have been so happy these past weeks.”

  “How long can happiness last? If Winifred should find out…”

  “She will not.”

  “That, my dearest, is where you are wrong.” Arthur stepped into the kitchen.

  Dressed in rough-spun tunic and bracae, with a plain bronze buckle fastening the leather sword belt at his waist he looked like any soldier’s son, except his air of authority and leadership belied any lesser rank than supreme commander. As Gwenhwyfar went to meet him, he encircled her slim waist with his arms, affectionately kissed the tip of her nose. “Winifred will find us out – I would wager she has already done so.”

  Gwenhwyfar nestled closer to Arthur’s strength. “I am not afraid of her.”

  “Then you ought to be! She can cause much trouble should she decide to poke her stick in this ants’ nest. And poking where she is not wanted is something my wife excels at.”

  Agreeing with him, Juliana added, “I would think twice, and once
again before placing too much trust where that one is concerned.” She slid her cakes into the oven. “Have you thought what is to happen,” she asked, “when you return to Britain, Arthur?” She indicated his leg. “Your wound is well healed, God be praised, and the sea lanes are open again after the winter storms. How long before the army calls you back? What are you to do with your wife and mistress then, eh?”

  Gwenhwyfar shuddered as a dark shadow passed over her. When Arthur goes? She had not thought of it, had not stopped to consider much at all beyond the here and now. She looked up with trust at his firm jawline, his long, straight nose and those piercing brown eyes, half concealed by the hair flopping over his face.

  With conviction she said, “I am to go with you.” When he did not reply, she said again, with more of a question, “I am to go with you?”

  He wiped a hand around the previous night’s growth of stubble he had not bothered removing that morning, perched his backside on the table where, before, she had sat, and held her at arm’s length the better to see her.

  “Only Winifred comes with me when I sail on the morrow.” Gwenhwyfar stared at him. Hearing the words, not comprehending.

  “I have been meaning to tell you these past few days,” he said, “but I did not want to spoil your happiness too soon.”

  Gwenhwyfar swung away to stand before him, hands clenched to her hips. “Spoil my happiness too soon? Like thunder out of a blue sky you sit there and calmly tell me you are going, not with me, but with her? I am to be discarded then? Dropped by the wayside like some worn cloak!”

  “Cymraes, it is not as you think.”

  “Oh, is it not?” She stamped her foot. “How do you know what I think? I will tell you, shall I? I think you are a lying, deceitful, whoring bastard!” She fled from the kitchen, through the small but comfortable living space and beyond to the privacy of the bedchamber.

  Arthur heard the door slam, looked helplessly at Juliana. “She had to know.”

  The woman matched his gaze. “Aye, she had to know. But not like that.”

  He flared up, more angry with himself than with Juliana. “How then? Tell her days since and destroy what small happiness she has had? Wait, and tell her tonight in front of the entire family?” He slammed the table with his fist, swore. Began again, calmer. “I apologise. You are, of course, right. I had not meant to tell her like that. I had intended to tell her later.” He paused. “After our last time together.”

  Juliana touched his arm, recognising his pain. “You do love her, then?”

  He groaned, swung away from the table, stood facing the wall, his hands resting above his head. “By all the gods there have ever been or ever will be, I love her.” He leant his forehead against the whitewashed plaster.

  His muffled voice did not hide the ache. “I have been ordered to return by Winifred’s father to attend a meeting of Council with Hengest. There is to be a new treaty.” He laughed wryly. “He mentioned his concern for my wife’s welfare.”

  “Does he not have cause for such concern?” Juliana asked rather tartly.

  Ignoring the sting, Arthur wandered to the table, brought a stool from beneath it and sat down with his chin resting on his hands. “She is a clever, cunning bitch. I would pay a high price to discover if she did manage to get a letter home, despite all my efforts to prevent it.”

  “Father Simon?” said Juliana thoughtfully. “She has spent many an hour with him these past months. I know he is impressed by her devotion to the faith, and her generosity to the Church as a whole.”

  “You seem to know a lot about my estate’s goings on, old woman,” Arthur said cynically.

  Juliana laughed, removed the cakes from the oven, their tantalising aroma filling the kitchen.

  “I go often to town and hear talk, and I am observant at Mass inside your mother’s fine chapel on the Lord’s Day.” She handed him a hot cake which he ate appreciatively. “Young Bedwyr chatters enough for me to know the inside workings of your villa backwards! Plus,” she added, “I have heard nothing but praise of Winifred from the good father himself.”

  Arthur made a derisory noise. “Winifred, like her mother, can make a fine show of benevolence when it suits her.”

  “The light of God can move in mysterious ways, Arthur.”

  “I doubt,” said Arthur, wiping crumbs from his lips, “even God would welcome that bitch into His kingdom. She is material more suited to the other place.” He pointed downwards. “Father Simon is a man who sees good in every soul. He has begged and badgered me, these past weeks, to allow her more freedom. What does he know of politics? Does he not realise for the price of a gold ring she could be up and away, running to her Saex kin? I will not let her go where I cannot have her watched. Not while she still bears the title of wife.”

  With a quirk of her eyebrow Juliana added, “And of course, how could you allow her out while you are making so free with that one in there?” She nodded at the door, in the direction Gwenhwyfar had gone.

  Arthur grinned, his eyes shining. “How could I indeed?”

  “Has it occurred to you, lad, your wife might not want to be parted from you?”

  Arthur coughed, spluttering crumbs. “What? Winifred? She wants me as much as a boil on the backside!”

  Juliana persisted. “Are you so certain? Wife to the Pendragon is a title worth the having. I have heard she weeps for you at night when you do not go to her.”

  “Your ears are hearing the wrong tales.” Arthur pushed himself away from the table and took another cake, Juliana swiping ineffectually at his hand. “During our short period of marriage I have made it my business to see through all Winifred’s tricks and schemes. Her tears do not fool me one drip of rain water.”

  “Yet you still answer Vortigern’s summons?”

  “Until I am in a position to do otherwise I have no choice. If I step over-far out of line, I could find myself in a worse position than my father did. I am biding my time. It will come.”

  He walked to the door, munching at the cake, spoke through a full mouth. “I am going to Gwenhwyfar.”

  “Be gentle with her.”

  XXI

  “Go away!”

  Arthur ignored Gwenhwyfar’s muffled curse, sat on the bed beside her crumpled body. He cautiously rested a hand on her back. She shook it off. “I said go away.”

  “Not without talking first. I am sorry, I did not intend for things to be like this.” He sighed: ‘sorry’ was such a hopelessly inadequate word. She remained face down, her arms curled around her head.

  “Why?” She rolled over, sat up.

  Arthur sighed again. What should he say? What could he say? “You know why.”

  “I do not!” she countered. “I have no idea why you are sailing for Britain on the morrow with your wife. I have no idea why you are taking her instead of me!” She swung her legs to the floor, moved away from the bed and the man sitting on it. She stormed around the small room, arms animatedly emphasising her words. “You are the Pendragon, rightful Lord of Dumnonia and the Summer Land; Lord of Less Britain. By all that is right, you ought be seated where Vortigern sits. You ought to be king.” She laughed derisively, stabbed an accusing finger at him. “You? King? Ha! You cannot run your own life, let alone that of others. Vortigern barks and you jump. The Pendragon? What an empty title. Your father in the other world must be covering his head in shame.” Her voice began to rise, shrill and tense. “You are nothing but Vortigern’s puppet. Are no better than the rest of them who fawn and grovel at his feet.”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Na! All those lies about how you hate her, how she makes your life a misery. How you, you poor, poor man, were forced to marry her. Go on tell me, tell me again how you have no choice but to take her back with you. I dare you!” She spat the last words in his face.

  His own anger rising he grasped her wrist. “You seem to have forgotten I have no power over the lands my father once held. He was exiled, remember? He lost those British rights.
He died fighting trying to regain them, or have you forgotten that also? I have no wish to die for a hopeless cause that is lost before it is even begun.”

  “So you admit to being a coward?”

  Arthur came very close to losing his temper at that moment. He drew breath, swallowed hard, held it in check. “I value my own life and the lives of my men too highly to spill blood needlessly.”

  She still wanted to fight. “So claiming your rights is no longer necessary?”

  “Gwenhwyfar, you are being deliberately obtuse. I have no love for Vortigern, nor his accursed daughter.”

  Gwenhwyfar interrupted, “Yet you share her bed.”

  “Blood of Mithras! Once since the Nativity!” Lies came easy to Arthur. “I get no pleasure from her.”

  Gwenhwyfar spluttered with laughter. “I suppose the begetting of the daughter she bore you was no pleasure either? Or did you play God and produce a second virgin birth?”

  “That is blasphemous!”

  “My, all of a sudden you are a Christian!”

  “Ah, my Cymraes, let us not quarrel,” he said, his hands spread, pleading.

  “That is all I am to you, Arthur. How Juliana and her husband must laugh. Arthur the Roman and his Cymraes, his native woman. His British whore!”

  Arthur’s temper snapped. It seemed such a little thing to push him over the edge but the name had been a special one to him since their childhood, the endearment signifying much more than a name between friends. Why, he could not say, it was just a thing that was. A link with childhood pleasure and vowed love. Cymraes fach, ‘little British woman’ he had called her during those happy, sunny days in Gwynedd. He had dropped the ‘fach’ unconsciously when he took her as his own.

  Arthur’s voice was quiet, almost menacing. “I thought the one I gave that title to was worthy of it.” He added bitterly, “I thought she was far-sighted enough to realise the tangle of politics is a hard knot to unravel. Someone, I thought, who would be able to understand when my back is up against the wall. One who could share the pain of having to wait, and wait, and wait again until a move sure to win without being butchered can be made. I thought a Cymraes would know this. Obviously she does not.” He turned to go. Angry at himself for being angry.