The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  “But I am not your woman!” she screamed. “British born or no, do you not see that? Winifred is!”

  With his back to her his hand on the door, he said, “Na, Gwenhwyfar, it is you who cannot see.” He left, could not go back.

  Juliana watched him ride away. Saw the tears streaming down his face; made no mention of them to the girl who lay on a bed, broken with grief, unaware of a new life growing within her.

  XXII

  Late afternoon, and the drizzle of the past two days had passed, leaving a leaden grey sky with low cloud that threatened more rain to come. Winifred wandered in the direction of the chapel. Father Simon, without seeing her, entered the squat building through the low door as she paused on the far side of the gateway. She glanced at her escort who nodded vaguely and settled himself on the grass growing alongside the wall. It was normal routine. Every afternoon Winifred went there to pray. Every afternoon the guard, a Christian himself, allowed this slight deviation from orders and let her enter the chapel without an escort. Save for the occasional presence of Father Simon, who was near-sighted in faith and vision, it was the only place outside her chamber where Winifred could sit unobserved. She paused in the porch before entering. The letter was to go with the noon tide, Fidelia had said, in trusted hands on a fast ship bound direct for Londinium.

  The door was ajar. Winifred, her hand on the latch, was about to step inside when she heard the priest’s voice saying, “Well, a stranger in my domain!”

  Who was he talking to? Pushing at the door she stopped short as Arthur’s voice answered. What was he doing here? She had watched him ride out again with that slut this morning, was not aware he had returned. She stood silent, ears alert, listening.

  “My mother’s chapel,” Arthur stressed the ownership, “has few reasons to draw me here.”

  “Yet you come today?”

  “Because today I have a reason. My wife comes here, I believe?”

  Listening outside Winifred bristled at the disgust in his voice. Had Arthur discovered the sending of her letter? A coldness congealed in the base of her stomach. She knew enough of Arthur to fear him. If he had read that letter she would certainly not see the dawn.

  Inside, unaware of the listener beyond the door, the priest in his turn stressed ownership. “All are welcome in God’s house.”

  Arthur did not miss the point but let it pass. He disliked Father Simon, he knew not why. He was a man who followed the ways of many of his kind, preaching the words of God, unflinching in his duties towards Christ, the sick and the poor. Arthur guessed his dislike stemmed from his mother who worshipped the man almost to the point of blasphemy. He was her friend, mentor, confidant and confessor, and she had thrust his words, God’s words, down Arthur’s throat so often in his boyhood that he was heartily sick of the three of them. The Holy Trinity? God, Ygrainne and Father Simon!

  As much as anything, it had been the need to escape their combined preaching that had persuaded him to take Cunedda’s advice and leave, to gain experience under Vortigern’s rein.

  “Why does Winifred come here?” Arthur snapped the question, expecting an instant reply. Father Simon stared back at the young man before him. Noted the tired eyes, the sallow, drawn skin. The defiance shielding uncertainty.

  Father Simon was given to trusting the promises of his small flock. He believed all could be saved and baptised to the true faith, with patience and understanding. He believed no man, woman or child was wholly bad, merely ignorant of God’s way. Some considered him a fool. Happen he was.

  “Your wife,” he answered, “comes here to pray for deliverance from this cruel prison you have immured her in.”

  Arthur laughed. “Is that what she has told you? Your eyes are veiled against deceit, Father.”

  “On the contrary my son, they are wide open.” Father Simon seated himself. “My eyes tell me you are troubled, else why would you be here in Our Lord’s house? My ears tell me you do not trust your wife. My heart tells me you are as imprisoned as she, and,” he added, satisfied at knowing he was right, “my logic tells me all these things are connected.”

  “My wife,” Arthur hissed, “is a liar and a cheat.”

  If he had meant to shock the priest, Father Simon showed no sign of it. He answered, “And are you not?”

  Outside, Winifred almost laughed aloud. Well thrust!

  The priest grew stern. “You exchanged the vows of marriage with her willingly.”

  “I did not. I was blind drunk.”

  “You consummated the marriage; she has since given you a child.”

  “She has given me pain and hatred.”

  “Which you have returned.” Father Simon, refusing to be drawn placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “My son, can you not see what grief you have caused her? Taking her away from home against her will is distressing enough, but confining her and banning all communication with her family, is that not unreasonable?”

  “Not when she plots against me; not when she intended to deprive me of my own child.”

  “But the child died. Your argument is invalid. Could it not be you keep your wife under guard because in your heart you do not wish to lose her? Because you have love for her?”

  “What?” Arthur exclaimed sardonically. “Love that bitch!” He stood up and moved away, fingering the carvings along the top of his mother’s high-backed chair.

  “Then let her go.”

  “Are you judging me?” Arthur had the chair between them, hands still now, his stance daring the priest to answer.

  Father Simon smiled benevolently, resting his hands on his knees. “It is our God who judges, not I.”

  “Your God, not mine,” Arthur hurled back. “I follow the soldiers’ god, Mithras.”

  “Mithras? Can the shed blood of his sacrificial white bull protect you more than the love of Christ?”

  This persistent paganism was a constant thorn in the priest’s side. The thorn festering with the knowing the son of Lady Ygrainne stubbornly refused to let go of the old and embrace the new. But then, Father Simon knew Arthur well. He had never been one to do as others advised. This Pendragon trod a lonely path.

  Arthur backed down, raising his hands in surrender, walked around the chair and sat down, his leg hooked over the arm. “I have not come here for theological debate. I have come for your help.”

  Beyond the door, Winifred raised her eyebrows. Arthur – seeking help!

  Inside, Arthur rubbed at sore eyes; he had not slept well these past nights. His thigh pained him often during the hours of darkness, and then there had been Vortigern’s summons. He drew his cloak around him; it was chill inside these cold stone walls where no sunlight fell.

  Rising from his seat, Father Simon walked to the altar, twitched a corner of the covering cloth straight. It was a beautiful thing of fine linen, stitched with care by Ygrainne.

  “This night and the nights to follow, Father, I ask for all the help I can get, from whatever God or gods are willing to give it.”

  “There is only the one true God. He can offer all the help you need if you would only bow to His will.”

  Arthur shook his head, unfolded himself from the discomfort of the hard-seated chair and began prowling around the small building – lightly touching carvings, moving a candle holder set in a niche, slightly to one side. The candle tipped, fell to the floor. “I am beyond saving. The help I speak of is not for me, not directly.” He retrieved the thing, set it back in its place, said, “We have had our differences, Father but you are a good man with a kind heart. I ask if you will see to the well-being of Lady Gwenhwyfar. She will be in need of friends after I sail on the morrow.”

  Winifred froze, her eyes opening wide, her body tensing. Tomorrow! Leaving on the morrow! He could not possibly be intending to leave her here in this godforsaken place! She willed herself to be still, forced down the sudden urge to storm through the door and demand to be taken with him. To scream and scream. She must listen.

  Father Simon sou
nded equally surprised. “Is this not rather sudden?”

  “I received word of recall some days past.” Arthur was now inspecting an embroidery hung at the back of the chapel. He recognised it as more of his mother’s needlework, vaguely remembered her working on it. Aye, that blue bird swooping down – as a boy he had stood watching her fashion it. He remembered her needle flashing, fingers deft, the little bird appearing with each neat stitch like some work of magic. He would have been about five summers old.

  Father Simon, clasping his hands together in an attitude of prayer, said, “It may be indelicate of me to say this, but infidelity usually results in one party’s extreme hurt.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. His silent response meaningful.

  “And the Lady Winifred?” The priest’s calm gaze ignored Arthur’s hostility. “I would not see her the injured party. She is your wife.” Sharp, judging, “The other woman is not.”

  Sidestepping the reprimand Arthur ran his hand along a shelf, inspected the black smear of dust left on his finger. “Is there anything you need for this place? Salvers, gold plate?”

  Father Simon folded his arms. Arthur always had been irritating, was forever ducking issues of importance as if he had not heard.

  “Your lady mother is most generous with her gifts. We have all we need.” He would not have the subject turned. “What of your lawful wife?”

  “None the less,” Arthur’s hands were open, offering generosity, “I would be pleased to donate something. A chalice?” He strode towards the altar. A crucifix stood there and two silver candlesticks. “You do not have one. I shall see what I can obtain.”

  The priest inclined his head, his hands burrowing beneath the folds of his loose sleeves. “That would be most gracious of you. I thank you.”

  Almost an afterthought Arthur announced, “I am returning Winifred to Vortigern. I intend to divorce her and wed Gwenhwyfar.”

  Outside, Winifred caught her breath, relieved at first that she was to be taken home, then outraged as his meaning sank in.

  Father Simon was slowly shaking his head, his lips pursed. “It is a sad day when solemn vows are broken.”

  Winifred’s hands were clenching and unclenching, her eyes bulging. She mouthed silent curses, sending all the poxes and plagues possible to various parts of her husband’s anatomy.

  “I am to end soldiering.” The Pendragon laughed ironically. “Who knows, when I am settled here on the estate I may even abandon Mithras. A farmer has small need of a soldier’s god.”

  Father Simon did not laugh or smile. “It will be hard for you to give up such a life. Hard for your lady wife to be so cruelly set aside.”

  Almost to himself Arthur added, “Harder still to give up the hope of holding all Britain.” Louder, “It will be no cruelty for Winifred. For once I am obliging her by giving her what she wants.”

  Ah, no! Winifred was thinking. You will not get away with this. You will not discard me like some dried-up milk cow and exchange me for a wide-eyed heifer!

  Laying his hand on Arthur’s arm, the priest asked with a frown, “You would renounce all for this one woman?”

  “All of it.” Arthur leant his hands on the altar, shoulders drooping. “Gwenhwyfar does not know of my plans – neither does Winifred.”

  Outside, Winifred sneered, mouthed Ha! Do I not!

  “Gwenhwyfar believes I am deserting her, which is why I came to ask you to watch over her while I am gone. I would rather have my wife safely set aside before giving Gwenhwyfar what she deserves.”

  Oh, she will get what she deserves! Have no fear of that, my husband. In a fury Winifred retraced her steps from the chapel, marched back along the narrow path leading to the villa, her guard scrambling to his feet, taken unawares. She slammed into her room and threw her cloak on the floor, screaming at scurrying servants to leave her.

  So he was to abandon her. Was to take that whore as wife in her stead. Oh no, no, he would not. She would not let him. Forgotten now her desire for a divorce, her plans to be rid of him. Those things were all on her terms. Her terms, not his.

  What angered her the most, made her teeth clench and her hand sweep phials and bottles from her table, were all those wasted hours. That soft treading and simpering, her forced smiles, her splendid charm. All winter she had striven to win confidences, gain sympathy. Father Simon, Fidelia, others. All that work to gain their trust, and a letter sent this very day to her father, all that and Arthur was leaving with her after all. Damn the man, damn him to hell!

  She lifted a wooden box from the chest beneath the window. Inside, a phial, wrapped in soft velvet. As she uncovered it, green sparks gleamed as light caught the rough-made glass.

  She lifted it held it up to the window, a malicious smile curving over her lips. “He will not have her. If he does not have me, he will not have her.” She laughed, head back, mouth open. Laughed.

  Reaching for the bowl of dried fruits beside her bed she sprinkled a few drops of the liquid, watched as it seeped through the wrinkled skins of dried dates and figs. Then she stoppered the bottle and returned it safe inside the box, wrapping it again in its protective cocoon of velvet. The lid shut, Winifred washed her hands in a bowl of water, dried them, called for Fidelia. One more task, one final trinket given.

  During dinner, Winifred was unnaturally talkative, almost gay. As was Ygrainne, now recovering well from her illness, gaining strength by the day, colour returning to her cheeks.

  Their last meal together. Both women were happy, eager for the departure. Both had expressed delight when Arthur informed them of the imminent return to Britain. Winifred had kissed him, holding him close. It gave her a sense of well-being, of gloating power to know secretly of his plans.

  Ygrainne felt relieved and relaxed now he was at last taking his leave. With God’s blessing it would be a while before he returned.

  Ectha asked the question Winifred had been burning to ask. “Where is Gwenhwyfar this night? Does she know of your departure, my boy?”

  Ygrainne answered for Arthur. “She was taken ill at the farm of Gaius Justinius Maximus. A message was sent. I shall send a litter for her on the morrow; it was too late to do so this evening.” She sniffed. “Why she rides there so often, I know not. There is as much to do here on the estate as on some poor farm.”

  No one answered her.

  Ectha took a further helping of roasted pig. “She is missing an excellently prepared meal.”

  Winifred smiled. No matter – one as well prepared awaited her.

  Ceridwen sat silent on Gwenhwyfar’s empty bed. Iawn, her husband, was staying in Gaul and consequently, was wishing God speed to the men of Arthur’s guard – which meant they were emptying many wineskins this night. He would not be abed until late.

  She disliked retiring without him; she missed his comforting bulk, his strong arms protective around her. She patted the swelling bulge of her stomach. How proud he had been when she had told him of the coming child.

  Her thoughts went to Gwenhwyfar. What a hopeless tangle she had got herself into. She would be so alone and miserable again now Arthur was going.

  When the message had arrived from Gaius, Ceridwen was all for riding straight to be with her cousin, guessing at the reason for this sudden illness, but Ygrainne forbade it saying it would soon be dark, unsafe to ride. She could go on the morrow, with the litter.

  Ceridwen padded on bare feet to the window, peered out at a star-peppered sky. She would away to her own bed. No use waiting for Iawn this night. Absently, she selected a handful of Gwenhwyfar’s dried fruit from a table nearby, blew out the single lamp and went to her own chamber, eating as she walked. Some of the fruit tasted bitter, she swallowed quickly, finished the handful, dusted sticky hands on her shawl and went to bed.

  Within two days, Ceridwen was dead.

  April 455

  XXIII

  Returning, Arthur discovered, was like being thrown into a deep river and being swept along by the current unable to swim for shor
e or cry out for help. It was incredible so much could alter within so short a space of time.

  It had not seemed so from a distance. The smoke from domestic fires drifting over red roofs, the glimpse of taller buildings beyond the solid bastions of the city wall – from this last curve of the river the city had seemed ordered and bustling in the midday sunshine. Ships were moored along the river frontage; the bridge ahead thronged with carts and men and cattle. With it all, the distant thrum of sound: voices, music, animals; donkey, cow, horse. The clatter of hooves, the rumble of wheels. Children shrieking, men and women shouting.

  As he drew closer, he saw the smoke trails were less numerous than he had thought, the carts not so laden and the city wall, and beyond it the roof tiles, were cracked and crumbling with great gaping holes here and there. And the ships were all Saex. Dozens of them. Trading ships with sails furled, some with cargo offloaded, others with barrels, baskets and pots still aboard. Moored among them were flat-bottomed oared vessels, the largest Arthur reckoned to measure around sixty feet in length between the high curves of prow and stern. As his own ship slid by one of these great war monsters, lying like the rib-exposed carcass of some huge dead animal, he counted eleven rowing benches; calculated at least sixty men per ship.

  He stood on deck, hands pressed against the rail, frowning. Why so many Saex? Where were the British craft and other coastal traders?

  He peered astern. She was still there, although now hanging to leeward. The Saex craft had slipped her moorings down by the estuary signal station and had eased into the wake of his own vessel. She had kept her distance, but there was a distinct feeling of being herded like a lost sheep back to the fold. She was flying a banner depicting a white horse. Hengest’s emblem.

  Hengest. Warrior, leader. Hengest with his brother Horsa and his three keels rowed by fierce, loyal men had come, it seemed, a lifetime ago. Exiled from their Jute homeland they had landed on British soil in search of ale for their horns, meat for their bellies and blood for their swords. Had found all three under Vortigern’s employment. Only now the ale was running sour, the meat turned bad and the blood? Aye, well, there was always plenty of blood for the taking.