The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  The door stood wide, a group of horrified men gathered there.

  Melwas, knowing Arthur’s hatred of Vortigern, had deliberately placed himself within hearing on the far side of the door. The unmistakable venom in Arthur’s raised voice and Vortigern’s scream, took him through to his king’s aid, regardless of protocol.

  “For once,” Vortigern said drily, masking the fear that made his body tremble, “I will refrain from chastising you for the rudeness of your entrance, my nephew.”

  Melwas grinned, indicated with a jerk of his head for the captain, standing astonished with Vortimer and the others, to call for Jute guards. They came, seized Arthur from Melwas’s hold, roughly dragging his arms behind his back. Melwas released his grip, bent to retrieve Arthur’s sword from the floor and placed it on the table before Vortigern.

  The King shuddered, forced his gaze from the blade smeared with his own blood. He pointed with trembling fingers at the weapon.

  “You shall pay for this outrage, Pendragon. The penalty for treason is death.”

  Melwas’s hand was already drawing his own sword. “Let me finish him now.”

  “Stay your hand!” Vortigern stood up, walked slowly round the edge of the table, stopped before Arthur, who stood mutely defiant between the two Saxons. “You will die, Pendragon – eventually. When I am ready to let you. When I have you on your knees begging for me to release you from this life.”

  He turned sharply to Melwas. “I give this whoreson to you, nephew. I must know the whereabouts of my daughter. I am certain Arthur will be only too pleased to tell you.”

  Melwas saluted, a triumphant leer stretching his black-toothed mouth. He motioned the guards holding Arthur to follow, and led the way out.

  Cei stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Arthur shook his head warning his second-in-command to stand down. Muttered, “I was stupid enough to miss the bastard’s throat.”

  The guards dragged Arthur away, marched him to the small block of prison cells set beneath the far walls of the palace, where Vortigern enjoyed providing his enemies with a lonely, agonising death.

  By evening and the coming of the dark, Melwas took successful word to his uncle. Immediately, a fast jute ship was placed under his command, and by the coming of dawn he was heading for the fortress of Portus Adurni and an estate lying halfway between the port and the ancient Roman town of Venta Bulgarium.

  XXIV

  In considerable discomfort from the beating he had endured, Arthur huddled in the corner of a dank cell. The place was dim although not altogether dark, for light from the distant guard’s room crept through a gap under the bolted door. High up in the stone wall a vent of a handspan’s width gave on to the outside world. As dusk had settled a small number of bats had descended from the eaves and flittered silently through the opening into the gathering darkness.

  The long night passed slowly. His face, swollen and bloody, ached; pain stabbing at his side from fractured and bruised ribs made it difficult to sit or lie comfortably in the scatter of musty straw. More than the pain, he disliked the creeping fear that clawed at his stomach. When they had brought him in here he had tried to ignore the sudden clutch of cold panic that, once it took hold, would not let go. He tried hard to conceal the dryness that came into his throat and the shaking that rattled his body. Melwas had laughed, highly amused at Arthur’s ashen face, placing it as fear of what the guards were about to do.

  The two of them had carried out their orders with alacrity and enthusiasm, while Melwas watched, leaning against the far wall, arms folded, eyes gleaming and nostrils flaring from the pleasure. Fists and feet battered without mercy, until breathless, in pain, bruised and bloody, Arthur gave in and told of where he had taken Winifred.

  Melwas took the surrender of information as a weakness. Arthur thought of it as common sense. Why suffer beyond endurance for something not important? For a while he had held out as a matter of principle, furious at Melwas’s gloating, but had soon set principle aside in deference to thudding pain. As a parting gesture Melwas had rammed his boot, twice, into Arthur’s groin. He had walked away laughing, leaving Arthur semi-conscious and floating in a haze of red blood and dizzy blackness.

  Sunlight streaking through the small vent illuminated swirling particles of dust that danced and spun in an unrehearsed pattern of intricate steps. Through the buzzing in his head Arthur could hear the Saex guards talking, but understood little of their guttural language. He must learn the Saex tongue, he decided. If ever he got out of here. The coming of day had eased the stifling fear of enclosed places a little, but not much. Arthur stared at the wooden door. The single shaft of sunlight ran straight as an arrow, from the vent to that door. He tried to look away, tried to set his mind to thinking on other things, but his gaze would be drawn back to those particles of dust swirling and tumbling down from the outside to the door. The door. The way out. The clutching desire was to run at it, beat on it and kick at it. He would if only he could get up, if only his body did not ache so; if only his head would stop this giddy whirling. If his legs would stop their shaking.

  He turned his back on the door, lay in an awkward heap keeping the weight off the side most injured. Inside he was screaming. He sat up, stared again at the door. His mouth would not open; fear had tightened his throat, clamped every muscle rigid. The walls were swaying, bearing down on him, collapsing.

  Arthur fell forward, vomited, spewing until his stomach heaved empty. It did not help. Still the walls swam and closed in. He shut his eyes, held them tight closed. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, ran down his body, saturating a tunic already stained from sweat and blood. “Mithras,” he groaned through clenched teeth, “by the love of the sacrificed Bull, please grant me death!”

  XXV

  While Arthur huddled within his prison of walls and fear of confinement, many miles to the south a storm-tossed ship ploughed her way through heaving seas.

  Gwenhwyfar raised her head bleakly as Iawn stooped beneath the awning of oiled leather. His face, grey and hollowed from grief, and stubbled from days of untended beard growth, bore a greenish tinge they all echoed, save for the hardiest members of the crew. Although even they had muttered prayers for deliverance to the new Christ and the old gods.

  Struggling with the single flapping sail and the bucking oars, the Christians among the crew touched carved crucifixes dangling at their necks on leather thongs; pagan worshippers, a variety of talismans. This crossing of the channel between Gaul and Britain, these experienced Breton sailors agreed, was the worst within living memory.

  It seemed to Gwenhwyfar, squatting beneath the rigged shelter to the stern of the stout little craft that her misery could not, surely, grow worse: until she looked up and saw the drawn tautness of Iawn’s face.

  “Tell me,” she said wearily, resigned, knowing he was about to impart further bad news.

  “We are apparently some distance off course. The steering board is barely operable and our captain doubts the mast will hold much further strain.” Iawn lurched forward as the ship fell over a side wave, spray cascading across the deck.

  Gwenhwyfar’s attempted smile did nothing to hide her despair. “Aside from that,” she flapped her hand feigning indifference, “all is well?”

  Grim, not echoing her false humour, Iawn hunkered down beside her, his broad shoulders hunched in his sodden cloak. “The captain has no choice but to run before the wind; there is no way of turning and heading back to where we should be making for.”

  “We are going in the wrong direction, then?” Gwenhwyfar pounded the sea-drenched deck beneath her with the palm of her hand. “We go east not west. Oh, Iawn, I want to go home.” She heard the childish whine in her voice, was powerless to prevent it. More than ever in her life, Gwenhwyfar felt pushed to the edge of control. The despair of those long months cloistered within Ygrainne’s suffocating hospitality, the grief-riddled news of her father’s death coming atop the agonising end of her much loved cousin – even the
pain of Arthur’s sudden departure were nothing to this. She longed for the security of Gwynedd’s mountains, her brothers’ solid protection. She was running away, running for a bolt-hole, but the holes when she reached them were blocked, so she had to turn around and run again, and keep running. Almost, with the misery of a churning stomach, thudding head and tears that would not cease, Gwenhwyfar had forgotten why she was running. Best to forget. It was all too horrible to remember.

  Iawn had not challenged her decision to leave Less Britain. Gwenhwyfar had announced her intention the day after his wife had been laid to rest within the little cemetery beside the walls of Father Simon’s chapel. Iawn had been numb, feeling nothing beyond disbelief at his loss. Even now, here on this god-forgotten ship, he expected to see his Ceridwen appear, face flushed with excitement over some incident of nature; the first butterfly; the first peep-peeping of fledglings in a nest; an arching rainbow; the wondrous colours of a glowing sunset. Ceridwen had delighted in all things of beauty, instilling the same appreciation in Gwenhwyfar and Iawn. Now she was dead, gone. Committed to the dark of the earth.

  Na, Iawn had made no objection to running away.

  Gwenhwyfar’s grief was deeper, for she had the knowing of the sinister truth behind Ceridwen’s death. Only Gwenhwyfar and Livila knew, and one other. The old woman had guessed at poison, but who listened to the babbling of a feeble-minded servant? Certainly not the physician, who regarded Livila as a harmful witch and often said so to her face.

  Ygrainne would be relieved when the tiresome old woman, the only member of the household who had refused to embrace the love of the Christ, relinquished her stubborn hold on life. Poisoned? What nonsense. Who would wish to poison Ceridwen?

  Livila guessed and Gwenhwyfar knew. They had exchanged glances over Ceridwen’s deathbed, seeing the truth in each other’s eyes, sharing their awful knowledge.

  Arthur had warned of Winifred – she could be dangerous, he had said. But she had made one mistake, one vital mistake. By not ensuring the poison reached its intended victim, by killing Ceridwen instead of Gwenhwyfar, the Saex bitch had dug herself a grave. Winifred would die; Gwenhwyfar would see to it, one day, no matter how far in the future, when opportunity came. One day, Winifred would pay for Ceridwen in kind. There would be no gentle easing into the next life, a soft sigh of breath, a peaceful departure. Ah no, not for Winifred. She would face the horror of an appalling death.

  Iawn did not know of the poison. Seeing his grief, feeling his pain, Gwenhwyfar could not tell him of it, had not the courage to tell him Ceridwen had died in her place. Enough of a wound in her own heart; she could not twist the knife in his. Some things were best left unsaid. And then news had reached them of her father’s death. It had all been too much.

  “I must reach Gwynedd,” she moaned now, desperate.

  “Lady, we could all drown, assuming the ship were even capable of being turned.” Iawn dropped his gaze, said, “For myself I have no fear of death, I have no wish to live without her.” He shut his eyes, fighting back tears.

  Gwenhwyfar reached for his cold hand, took it in her own, said nothing. What use words?

  He struggled to compose himself. “My duty is to safeguard the Lord of Gwynedd’s sister. I cannot risk your death, nor can I risk the ship’s crew coming with me to meet my God.”

  Gwenhwyfar nodded. Of course he was right. “Where does our captain hope to put ashore?” she asked with a false bravado.

  Iawn shrugged. “The first port he can reach. He dare not attempt to turn too soon or this storm will flatten us like barley before the scythe. We must run before it until such time as he can ease this floating coffin into a new course.”

  Gwenhwyfar smiled again and drew her damp blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “Then we must leave our fate to the gods.”

  Iawn managed an answering smile. “For all my faith in God, I would rather, at this moment, trust your life to the skill of our captain and his crew.”

  The weather-shrouded southern tip of the Island of Vectis appeared in the distance against the murk of a dark sky as the swirling rain squalls eased to a steady fall of drizzle, and the wind blew itself out of its violent temper. With relief, and a hasty prayer to God, the captain manoeuvred his craft away from the tossing open sea and slid her into the calmer waters running between island and mainland.

  As they churned into the sheltering straits, the gusting wind dropped and the crew cheered. Portus Adurni and safety lay ahead.

  Huddled in the rain-sodden blanket, Gwenhwyfar shed its weight with relief and stepped out on deck, watching with interest as the ship made its way along the waterways, limping, tired and battered, but near enough in one piece. There was much laughter and jesting among the crew.

  She was looking west, to the wide stretches of marsh running along the coast, so missed another mast and its cross-chequered sail, moving swiftly out of port.

  Someone in the crew raised a worried shout, pointed, his arm full out-thrust, head turned in alarm to the captain.

  Gwenhwyfar swung round at his shout. She shielded her eyes, peered through the shadows of mist at the ghostly outline.

  Another yell and the crew scattered, their relief melting into fear and disbelief as they hauled at the ragged sail and laid to the oars.

  Confused, Gwenhwyfar watched their scurrying, listened to their cursing and swearing as they bullied the sluggish ship to respond.

  Iawn ran to her, scooped her aside, manhandling her towards the stern hatchway that led to a dark stinking hold below decks. She fought free of him, demanded to know what was happening.

  “That ship, Lady,”

  “I am aware of it.”

  “It is Saex.”

  “It sails from a British harbour – happen it is one of Vortigern’s mercenary fleet.”

  Irritated at her unusual stupidity, Iawn snapped a reply. “British ships do not fly the Saex flag. No merchantman of any nation would run close to such a ship. They are sea-wolves.”

  Rubbing her fingers across her forehead, trying to ease the persistent ache behind her temples, Gwenhwyfar struggled to think clearly. The stress of this voyage and the whirling confusion of the past days fogged her mind as deftly as the haze beyond the bows masked the outline of that ship, now altering course and heading fast straight for them.

  The captain roared orders but the weary crew, not needing them, had already swung into defensive action. The mate passed close by Iawn, running to take a bow position. He tossed half order, half advice in his clipped accent. “Get woman below, open deck no place for her.”

  He said no more, running to tend his own salvation as best he could. Once that ship closed it would be every man for himself. No matter who she was, few of the crew would put Gwenhwyfar’s safety above their own. It was the risk you took with the sea; you faced storm and sickness alone. And Saex sea-wolves.

  Iawn was worried. He thought furiously of the best course of action, understanding the almost hopeless situation. This was a merchant ship, a trader, not a warship, its only weapons his own and the daggers the crew carried. Against a Saex ship? God, do not think like that! If he could hide Gwenhwyfar she might be overlooked. He glanced at the land, a good mile distant. Could she swim if he were to drop her overboard?

  Gwenhwyfar read his thoughts. “I am not that strong a swimmer, Iawn. I have little desire to drown.”

  “It may be a preferable option.” He opened the hatch cover, indicated she was to climb down.

  “And if you are thinking,” she said firmly, “that I am going to scuttle into some foul corner and cower like a trapped rat, then you can think again.”

  Iawn opened his mouth to protest, read her determination. He had seen that same look on Cunedda’s face. He nodded, drew his sword, ran a thumb along its fine double edge. “Then we had best prepare ourselves for a fight.”

  Gwenhwyfar nodded back at him, one brief nod. All of a sudden her headache was gone; she felt alive and eager. Throwing her cumbersome cloak from he
r shoulders, heedless of the steady rain, she gathered her skirts and drew the back hem forward between her legs. Tucking it up through her belt, she pulled the leather tighter about her waist to form a crude pair of bracae to allow unhampered movement. A sailor scurried by and she grabbed at his woollen cap, plucking it from his head.

  He turned with a snarled curse, biting the scathing words back as he saw who the thief was; shrugged good-naturedly as Gwenhwyfar produced a small bronze coin from the pouch at her hip and threw it to him.

  He tossed the coin in the air, caught it, then with his thumb flipped it over the side of the ship. “Gods’ll be wantin’ that. Best t’pay for me way to the next world now while I ‘ave the chance. I’ll ‘ave little need for money soon I’m thinkin’.” He made to walk off, turned back with a toothless grin. “Have no need for me cap either.”

  Gwenhwyfar had plaited and bound her hair in Roman fashion before leaving Less Britain. Most of the pins were lost now, great hanks of hair straggling loose and unkempt during the rough weather. She curled the hanging loops on top of her head, pulled the cap tight down, tucked away a few stray wisps.

  “Not so obvious a woman now?” she queried.

  Iawn grunted.

  The Saex were gaining rapid ground. What chance had they, a lame deer running against a young wolf? Gwenhwyfar waited, alert, shoulders back, chin lifted. Beside her, Iawn.

  “Stay beside or behind me, whatever happens,” he ordered.

  Waiting, watching, as the Saex ship beat relentlessly nearer, her legs braced against the pitch and roll of the wooden deck, Gwenhwyfar thought of everything and nothing. Voices, half-forgotten phrases; faces, drifting and passing. Memories and dreams mingling with regrets and hopes.

  She could see details of the Saex rigging; see the cross-woven strips running through the sail giving it that chequered pattern. See the dull glint of drawn weapons and the hands clutching grappling hooks held at the ready. Faces, as the two ships came together, the Saex vessel ramming her heavy reinforced bow into the fragile sides of the trader.