The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  By the number of moored ships, those three original keels had somewhat multiplied.

  The following ship trailed Arthur almost to the bridge. There, before the current took her, she heeled aside, turning in a wide curve to make fast against the first of the Saex-crowded wharves.

  The six oarsmen of Arthur’s sailing vessel gave one last stroke, shipped their oars and let the flow and their own momentum take them forward to the bridge and under the towering wooden structure, between two of its many piers. Arthur shut his eyes He was no sailor. Those rising stone pillars seemed to come close! Then they were through, shooting out the other side, the oars again dipping into the churning water that fought to make way between the barricades.

  A few British ships were this side, gathered in a protective knot along the wharf at the mouth of the tributary river. His own ship back-paddled and swung in sluggishly, leaving the race of the river, heading for the palace water gate. She bumped against the oak planking. Mooring rope clasped in his hand, a crewman leapt ashore before she ducked outwards again, made her bow fast and ran to catch a second thrown rope astern.

  Arthur did not wait for the plank to be lowered, jumped instead to firm ground and climbed the steps up to the palace two at a time, his simmering anger overriding the lurch and sway of sea swell. Two ragged guards at the gate, Saex, stared impassively as he strode past. Had the palace always seemed as shoddy and world-weary? Had it always been so in need of repair, or had he just not noticed?

  Spring-grown weeds choked the cobbles, plaster had fallen away in great chunks, the exposed brickwork beneath beginning to crumble. His footsteps echoed under the entrance arch, unchallenged. He swung along corridors, up some steps, along more corridors and swept into Vortigern’s outer chamber where he came face to face with Melwas, Vortigern’s sons, Vortimer and Catigern, a British captain and, to his intense relief, Cei.

  “What in the name of the Bull is happening here?” he thundered, removing his cloak and tossing it to a slave.

  “You may well ask,” Catigern drawled from where he sat sprawled across a couch like a swatted spider.

  Cei had sprung forward the instant Arthur entered and greeted his cousin warmly, taking his hand, grasping it firmly. “You are quite recovered? I see you are, praise be to God – when I think of our fears some months past! Thank God they were proven false.” He released Arthur’s hand. “We expected you days since.” Quietly he added, “Where in all Hell have you been? I have worried myself sick for your well being!”

  “You alone, I presume,” Arthur answered, ducking his head towards the glower of displeasure on Melwas’s face.

  Louder he said, “I had business to attend afore I came here.” He steered Cei aside, said hastily, “I have been seeing to my divorce from Winifred. I have endowed her with the small parcel of land I hold along the south coast. That will suffice for her.” He grinned with a devil-may-care gleam. “She has promised, with dark threats, to find lawyers to claim back her full dowry.” He clapped a hand on Cei’s shoulder. “I don’t think she realises how irritatingly long these lawyers can take over domestic settlements.”

  Vortimer crossed the room to clasp Arthur’s hand. “It is as well you delayed no longer. Within a few weeks this place will be no more than an empty shell.”

  “It seems little more than that now,” Arthur said derisively. Then with caution asked, “Why?” There was an odd smell here somewhere. “What has been happening while I have been away? Why are there no British guards here or manning the signal stations? I saw no sign of life, save for Saex, the entire length of the Tamesis.”

  “A thousand whys and a thousand more to follow.” Catigern was very drunk.

  Cei poured Arthur some wine and part answered his question. “Vortigern has used only Hengest’s men for some time now, he claims he can no longer trust his own breed.”

  Arthur took the wine and laughed. “It has taken him this long to discover it?”

  Cei did not echo the humour. “Our men are camped a few miles from here.” He pointed out their general direction beyond the north gate. “The King is withdrawing. Moving west to make Caer Leon his royal capital.”

  Arthur, the wine halfway to his lips, lowered the goblet in stunned disbelief.

  Vortimer took up the telling from Cei. “The traders and merchantmen have not come to Londinium this spring. Nor will they the next. They say the Saex are too numerous along this eastern coast for safe trade.”

  “And from next month they will be taking over the sea lanes also,” added the army captain, perched on the edge of a table.

  When Arthur looked blankly from one to the other it was Melwas, surprisingly, who said, “My uncle proposes to cede the British Cantii territory to Hengest’s overlordship.”

  “What?” Arthur spun round to face him, spilling his wine.

  Melwas returned the hostile stare, dark eye to dark eye.

  The door to Arthur’s right was closed. Setting his goblet down with a decisive thud, spilling more of its contents, Arthur strode over to it.

  “It is no use,” said Vortimer stepping in his path. “The King’s mind is set. He will bring eternal peace, he says, between our two peoples this way.”

  “He was supposed to have done that when he took Rowena as wife.”

  “A meeting between Council and Hengest’s Eldermen to finalise the treaty is arranged – that is why so many Saex ships are gathering on the river. My father will not back down. There is nothing we can do.”

  “Damnation there isn’t!”

  Arthur thrust Vortimer aside, kicked the door open and burst into Vortigern’s private chamber, slamming the door shut behind him.

  The King barely glanced up from the parchment he was reading. “I thought I heard your pleasant tone, son-by-law. Do come in.”

  “What do you mean by this?” Arthur shouted, coming to stand before Vortigern’s table, his arms folded, his expression thunderous.

  “Exactly the question I intended to put to you,” said Vortigern unruffled. He searched among the pile before him on the table and tossed a parchment towards Arthur, who, glancing at it, recognised Winifred’s neat hand. “I am none too happy with the way you have been treating my daughter.”

  Momentarily taken aback at the change of subject and with annoyance that the bitch had managed to get a letter through, Arthur stared at him. “I do not give a dog-turd about your daughter! What has she to do with this foolishness?” Angry, his hand swept the parchment aside, taking with it several other scrolls that rolled and bounced to the floor.

  “She has much to do with it – she wrote it.”

  Arthur ignored the King’s deliberate twisting of his meaning. “I will not allow you to so casually dispose of British land!”

  Vortigern straightened some of the chaos Arthur had caused and laughed sourly. “You will not allow? Tch, tch, we are coming the high and mighty today.” He sorted a muddle of written accounts into a neat pile. “Unfortunately for you, boy, I do care about my daughter. And,” he added pointedly, “it is my kingdom to dispose of as I please, not yours.”

  “You will not give it away to Hengest!”

  “Not even for an assurance of peace? I suggest you listen to facts before you start belly-aching.”

  “And I suggest you listen to sense, old man,” Arthur shouted.

  Vortigern rolled another parchment, deliberately taking his time. He set it aside, reached for another. “Hengest has assured me he will be content to settle his people alongside those British who wish to remain in the Cantii land. They exchange one over-lord for another, that is all. It is no new thing, has been happening for centuries. The farmers care little what lord they pay taxes to, as long as they are left to farm in peace.”

  “And in return?” Arthur’s voice was cold, hostile.

  Vortigern sighed. This really was none of the Pendragon’s business. A king did not have to justify himself. “Naturally he will pay land tenure to me in the form of grain and goods.”

  �
��Naturally,” sarcastically. “Is that all?”

  “What else need I ask for?”

  “Hostages.”

  Vortigern leant back in his chair. “Hostages? My dear boy, Hengest is my father-by-law.” Spelling facts out, “His daughter is my wife. Why would I have need of hostages?”

  Arthur’s eyes had narrowed to fierce slits. “You will do this over my dead body, Vortigern.”

  “That,” the King replied with a chill smile, “I can arrange.” His voice hardened. “I and Council make the decisions. Not you.”

  Arthur rested his hands on the table. “And I can hold the entire British army.”

  Vortigern laughed, attempting, unsuccessfully, to hide his unease. “I will take that as an idle boast, the sort boys crow after the taking of their first woman.” He feigned contempt, well aware Arthur’s threat was a distinct possibility. His manner changed, turned dark and ominous. “I do not like threats, nor do I like those who make them. The matter is closed.”

  He pushed his chair away from the table. “As for my daughter, I intend to ensure she receives a public apology for your disgusting behaviour, adequate financial compensation for her humiliating experience, and that from here on you bestow upon her the full duties of a husband.”

  Vortigern over-rode the response of verbal abuse by continuing with, “I would not like to hear any alternative view, boy. I would take any attempt by you to set aside my only daughter as a personal insult, would regard such an act as treason.” He too leant his hands on the table. “Do I make myself quite clear, Pendragon?”

  Winifred’s pleading letter had annoyed Vortigern. He had allowed this marriage for two reasons: to keep a close eye on Arthur and to block him from making any other, more alienable marriage. Now in this sent letter the silly girl was begging him to seek a divorce for her? Ah no, he could not allow the Pendragon that freedom. “I assume she is disembarking from your ship? I wish to see her at once,” he commanded.

  “She is not here.”

  From his seat, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s, Vortigern said, slow and deliberate, “You had best not have the nerve to inform me she remains a prisoner in Less Britain.”

  “She is in this country, safe from your clutches until such time as I see fit to return her to you. After I have completed the dissolving of our marriage, you can do what you want with her.” Arthur was again standing with arms folded. “I’d send her to Hengest if I were you: her scolding tongue will drive him to fall on his own Saex sword.” His hand shifted to the pommel of his sword. “You can have her back when I get what I want. All that I want.”

  The King linked his fingers across his stomach and tapped his thumbs together. “Which would be?”

  Arthur hesitated, his carefully rehearsed words forgotten. He had intended to exchange Winifred for his freedom but this absurd treaty changed everything. Or was it an opportune excuse not to give up his command and his dreams?

  On the voyage from Less Britain he had taken time to think, to sort the tide of fast running emotion from sound sense. Would he survive a life of farming? What did he know of overseeing the estate, or of wine production? Nought! Ectha saw to all that. There would be nothing for Arthur to do save sit and watch a bulging belly gradually flop over his bracae belt. He was born to be a soldier, it was in his blood.

  What of Gwenhwyfar? Would she think as well of him if he were to turn tail and abandon all he had dreamed of, worked towards? She had once said she would have only the best. To throw away the chance of securing the kingship would achieve nothing. Would she despise him, as much as he would despise himself? In all truth he did not think their love would hold, given such a bleak future as life on the estate under the shadow of Ygrainne. But there were alternatives. They could go to Gwynedd, he could fight from there. Or he could demand the return of his father’s lands in exchange for Winifred’s safe release.

  On board ship he had tossed the ideas back and forth, regretting his confidence of rash intention with Father Simon. It had all seemed so reasonable there, with the raw wound of Gwenhwyfar’s scalding tears stabbing his heart. He had sat morosely nursing one wine flask after another, drinking himself almost senseless as the ship battled her way through a heavy swell, hugging the safety of the coast, unable to put into the wind for fear of being smashed to pieces.

  It had been Winifred who had cleared his mind. That first night, after a scant meal shared in the confines of the captain’s quarters set aside as their own, she had confronted Arthur.

  “Where are you taking me this time, husband?”

  “Somewhere I can keep close watch on you while I negotiate our divorce.”

  She had not replied for some moments, then, to his surprise, said, “With my co-operation, you will not need to negotiate.”

  His thought: What is she up to?

  Winifred had smiled at him then, had taken his arm, kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I have been as miserable as you in this union,” she had said, so sweetly. “I too wish it to end. On my terms.”

  He had nodded; that came as no surprise. “Which are?”

  “We sort out our differences in private. Let it be seen our journey to Less Britain, the birth and sad death of our child, has united us. All I require is that I do not lose face.” She had played with his hair, twisting the dark strands in her bejewelled fingers. “I wish to have my own substantial estate and wealth, and for it to appear we are reconciled. In a few months’ time, our divorce can come about as an amicable arrangement.” Fiercer, “I will not be set aside or shamed, Arthur.”

  Winifred had rejoiced at his shrug of acceptance. “I suggest, husband,” she had said, unlacing the thongs of his leather tunic, “we make the best of this unfortunate situation.”

  Like any male used to regular pleasure he had great need of a woman’s body, and strong wine, far from damping his urge, usually heightened it.

  Each night of the tedious journey, made longer by the battle against an ill wind, they shared a bed. Gave, and received, pleasure. Holding his sleeping head to her breast through the hours of darkness, Winifred lay calculating the time of the month and praying for her womb to quicken. She had decided against divorce. Would not give him that freedom. It would be more satisfying to keep him chained, bound to her by neck and ankles. More amusing to watch as he grieved over his dead, high-born whore and watched as, week by week, she, Winifred, swelled with child.

  Their ship had dropped anchor a short distance west along the coast from the fortified harbour of Portus Adurni. Sending men to obtain horses, Arthur had escorted his wife inland to the estate he had acquired the previous summer. She had ridden beside him, head high, smiling and proud. Triumphant.

  His memory of Gwenhwyfar had been betrayed by his return to his wife, and Winifred’s monthly course had not come. Her bleeding had always come on time before that wretched girl-child was born, and again since. There was no reason, save one, to expect this month to be different. When this babe came, it would be a son. She was certain of it. Within the turn of the month Arthur would know Gwenhwyfar was dead, that his wife was pregnant, and all hope of freedom was lost. She had smiled broadly as they rode. Smiled, still, when he left to return to her father. Revenge had a taste as sweet as wild honey.

  Arthur stood now, facing Vortigern, wondering whether to make his demands or wait. This treaty must be stopped. It would be the end of southern Britain were so much to be given for so little. He was going to divorce Winifred, he was determined, and despite what she said to the contrary, he had little doubt Winifred was equally adamant no divorce should take place. For months past she had wanted their parting; now she did not – but then, Winifred was always perverse, wanting a thing only because it was her own idea, rejecting it if it was not. Arthur had not been so blind drunk on board ship to not realise Winifred’s submission was all sham, that she was thigh deep in some scheme of her own making.

  The King grew tired of waiting for an answer. He said, “The contents of my daughter’s letter proved very int
eresting. I have no doubt Cunedda’s eldest son will be much angered to hear of your, shall we call it indiscretion, with his sister. Especially when he hears of the matter after it has been dragged through the alehouses and taverns. At least Cunedda’s death has spared him the knowledge that his precious Gwenhwyfar outshines any spread-legged whore.”

  Arthur stood there, stunned. Cunedda dead?

  “When? How did my lord of Gwynedd die.”

  Vortigern shrugged. “I have no idea, nor do I have any concern over it.”

  “Has his daughter been sent word?”

  Folding his hands together Vortigern regarded Arthur a long moment, his gaze cold, without feeling. “I have no idea or concern of that either. Neither should you. Your care is for your wife, not that whore.”

  “You bastard!” Arthur had never known such overwhelming anger. Filled with a blinding white rage, he drew his sword.

  Action slowed to stillness for Vortigern. He had goaded too harshly, too soon, and realised it too late. Like all bullies he had little courage. Quick wits, coupled with a savage ruthlessness had given him the position and reward he required. Blood and guts on the battlefield nauseated him beyond endurance. Facing Arthur’s naked blade he remembered suddenly the last time Arthur had drawn sword against him. Remembered Arthur’s threat.

  Arthur remembered too. It had been no idle threat and nor was this. As the blade whistled down Vortigern felt a warm wetness trickle down the inside of his legs. He closed his eyes. Screamed.

  The fatal slash of iron through flesh never came. He felt something touch his cheek, a hiss, a rush of air. Heard a scuffle, hard breathing, a clatter. Tentatively the King opened his eyes, put shaking fingers up to a wet stickiness below his left eye. Looked unbelievingly at the blood daubed on them.