Gwenhwyfar stood in the stern flanked by Iawn, a boy, the captain’s slave, no older than ten years, and, surprisingly, the mate.
A great cry went up. Attack from the Saex, yells of defiance from the trader. The sea-wolves boarded, leaping the gap between the two ships, others throwing their hooks, bringing the ship around, alongside. As the two hulls crashed together, more leapt, savage in their eagerness to kill and plunder. Two of the crew were dispatched immediate, others putting up a fight as more and more Saex poured aboard.
For a moment, while she still had a brief second in which to think, Gwenhwyfar wished she had obeyed Iawn and hidden herself away down below. She stood trembling a little behind him, feeling the tight knot of fear binding in her belly. She had seen men killed before, knew the flood of blood and choking cry of death, but those had been deaths on her father’s orders, executions, punishments. She had seen the wounded return from war with limbs shattered or removed, faces misshapen, bodies hacked, eyes gouged out, noses split. Death hovering, like gulls over a catch of fish. This was different. This was cold, bloody, and happening for real.
Her stomach clamped tighter, a gasp escaping her lips as she looked up and saw him. She felt sick. Standing on the Saex deck, legs spread, fists on hips and laughing as he watched the merciless slaughter, stood Melwas.
Gwenhwyfar clutched at Iawn, shrinking behind her protector, but Melwas looked directly at her, their eyes meeting across the two decks.
His nostrils flared and he gave a wide, lazy grin. The wind caught his cloak, spreading it like wings behind him. He looked like some bird of prey hovering, waiting the right moment to plunge down and sink its talons into a defenceless victim.
He folded his arms, waited. He had recognised her, knew who she was.
Something made Gwenhwyfar glance up at the low-hanging sky; she caught sight of a ragged fluttering at the masthead.
How stupid of them! There, for all who cared to see, flying alongside the Less Britain pennant, proudly proclaiming the ship’s passenger, rain-sodden but clear enough to distinguish, the Lion banner of Gwynedd.
The Saex were upon them now, this valiant little group in the stern. Iawn and the mate struck forward. With his sword, Iawn took off an arm, the mate with his thinner and shorter sailor’s blade plunging into the fight, hacked through flesh and bone.
Others came on, relentless. The boy had sunk to the deck, curled himself in a tight ball, moaning in terror. He never saw the blade that slit him almost in two.
An instinct for survival stirred Gwenhwyfar – that and remembered voices of brothers and father, shouting, bullying, never letting up on those days of weapon training. Go, Gwenhwyfar! Thrust, go for the belly, throw your body weight behind your dagger – light on your feet, girl – light, I said! GO!
She lunged with her dagger, screaming the Gwynedd war cry, drawing bright blood from an opponent’s severed artery as her weapon scythed through a thigh.
The mate went down. He struggled to regain his footing; a blade pierced his throat. It took a while for his lifeblood and spittle to gurgle from the wound, spouting foul redness over wooden deck and leather boots.
Iawn fought savagely, using sword, shield and body with skill; fighting with strength and wit. It was useless. He pushed Gwenhwyfar with his elbow towards the rail. “Jump!” he screamed, eyes as ferocious as the order, turning his head for her to catch his words.
A sword, raised high, glimmered bright against the leaden sky some trick of light reflecting off its shining blade. This was no ordinary Saex sword, but a thing of finer work, crafted, surely, by the hands of faery folk? Gwenhwyfar’s line of sight flickered to it as Iawn shouted, taking in every detail of its fascinating, deadly beauty. A sword made for a king’s hand.
Iawn saw it also, hesitated, caught off guard by the massive brute wielding such a fine weapon. The blade slashed down, whistling as it cut through wet air. It sliced through Iawn’s helmet, through scalp, bone and brain. Blood and matter spewing out, drenching everything. Gwenhwyfar screamed. A hand grabbed at the cap on her head and her bright copper hair tumbled free. The huge Saex, lowering his wondrous sword, stared, momentarily astonished at his lucky catch, then said something in his guttural tongue to his companions who laughed.
Gwenhwyfar flew at him, biting, scratching and kicking. All her father’s training clean forgotten. The man guffawed louder, lifted her off her feet with one hand. She saw a blade glint and fall. Blood gushed into her eyes and then came darkness.
XXVI
Gwenhwyfar clawed her way to consciousness through a swimming haze of pain. Her arms felt numb, her body cold and drained. It was a battle to open her eyes; when she managed it she looked straight into the bloodied, vacant stare of Iawn’s eyeballs, wide in his severed head. She vomited where she lay in her crumpled, bound heap.
Her arms were tethered behind her, ankles roped together. Wriggling, ignoring the protests of aching muscles, Gwenhwyfar managed to turn herself from the gruesome trophy dangling from the mast. A drizzle of rain pattered on her upturned face, its coolness reviving her thrumming senses. The ship was moving fast, running before a lee wind, skimming through troughs of rail-high waves. It would have been a fine ship, had it not been Saex. Sickness swelled in her throat again. She closed her eyes. Still they remained, Iawn’s blank, staring eyes and the crunch of metal slicing through bone and sinew, severing head from neck. Her stomach heaved. She fought hard against bile and tears. Failed against both.
Reluctantly she opened her eyes again; the sky moved near then far, rising and falling as the ship breasted the waves. On the edge of her field of vision, woollen bracae tucked into deer-hide boots, braced in a wide stance against the roll of the sea.
“You have not had a pleasant journey.”
Melwas.
“So you attack and slaughter your own kind openly now? Has the hidden sliding of a knife into gut lost its amusement?” She was not looking at him, but knew he shrugged, uncaring.
“My men require payment. If they can claim it themselves from gained plunder, then so much the better.” He squatted then, so she could see his face. “Aside, I would be a fool to miss the opportunity of claiming what is rightfully mine.”
“You forfeited any rights when you murdered my brother!”
He leered at her, showing blackened, gapped teeth. Sa, she still had fight left in her. “You have not forgotten me, then?”
Gwenhwyfar’s hatred was manifest. “Gwynedd never forgets.”
“Yet your father conveniently forgot our betrothal when he spirited you away.” He grabbed her hair, his hand lashing out, fingers curling in its length. “I will not be made to look the fool.”
“You make yourself a fool.”
He struck her for that, once, across the cheek. A dribble of blood oozed from her lip, mixing with the trail of dried blood from the wound made by that Saex sword pommel striking her on the temple.
“More of a fool!” she added, refusing to be cowed. “Only fools threaten Gwynedd.”
He struck her again, harder. “Gwynedd will bow the knee to me. I intend to make a start with your submission.”
Gwenhwyfar regarded him unflinching. “I am not afraid of you, Melwas the fool. My brothers are stronger.”
He walked away, tossed over his shoulder, “But your brothers are not here, are they?”
As the ship rounded the chalk cliffs of Dubris, the wind and rain ceased at last, though a grey sea still rolled beneath oppressive, greyer skies.
Gwenhwyfar recalled little of the horrendous, cramped voyage. Melwas did not bother her again, nor did the Saex, busy about ship’s business. They sailed up the coast, darkness well settled long before the crew lowered the mast and took to the oars. Rowing steadily, they sent the vessel skimming into the Tamesis estuary, their low-chanted song keeping rhythm, the reflection of steering lamps bobbing on calmer water. The tide would turn soon and carry them forward, up river.
The pitching and rolling eased once they joined the calm of
the river, and finally, Gwenhwyfar fell asleep. She must have slept for a long while, for dawn was well past when the ship bumped the shore, jolting her awake.
She recognised the wharf of the water gate at Londinium. Two Saex, one the man who had killed and beheaded Iawn, hauled her to her feet, releasing her ankles but not her bound wrists. He wore her dagger, tucked proud beside his wondrous sword. They marched her forward, her numbed limbs shaking, and she stumbled as they dragged her down the plank to shore and up worn steps into the palace.
Saex kind were everywhere. She did not see one British guard the whole length of the debris-choked pathways and dusty corridors between the wharf and the chamber to which they took her. But then that was to be expected. Melwas would not risk her meeting with a possible sympathiser.
They cut the rope binding her, threw her to the bed and left, talking in their language, which to her ears sounded as pig-like grunts. A key turned in the lock and the bored scrape of feet indicated men moving to stand easy outside.
So, she was a prisoner then.
Gwenhwyfar looked about her for some vague hope of escape. The room was small, with the bare essentials of furnishings. A bed, a chest, a table. There was one window, narrow and rectangular, unshuttered. Thin though she was, she doubted she would be able to squeeze through. Even if she could, there would be a considerable drop beyond. She attempted to open the casement, but the iron lever was rusted and refused to move. Rubbing away grime and dust with her fingers she peered through a single pane of the thick glass, wondering if it were possible to smash a way through.
She started and whirled around as a woman entered. A British slave bearing water in a jug and a platter of food.
“I am Gwenhwyfar of Gwynedd. Melwas is holding me prisoner.” Gwenhwyfar emphasised her voice to that of command. Slaves were expected to obey. “I need get word to my brother. There will be a manumission for you if you help me.”
The woman did not even glance up, but placed the items on the table, turned away and left. Gwenhwyfar hurled the platter at the closing door.
She fumed for a while, uttering all the obscenities she knew, cursing the slave and cursing her daughter’s daughters. Exhausted of oaths, she realised her hunger and devoured the provisions, sitting cross-legged before the closed door picking crumbs from the wooden floor. She drank some water. Appetite and thirst satisfied, she set about her appearance.
Stripping herself of boots, torn gown and sodden under-garments, all stinking of vomit and blood, she kicked the things away from her and washed as best she could in what water remained in the pitcher.
She stood naked and shivering, reluctant to creep into the bed where it would be warm, although she was tempted. Twitching the top fur covering aside, she discovered coarse linen beneath. She stripped the bedding, fashioned a crude wrap-around linen garment and added the fur as a cloak. Then she sat on the floor at the far side of the room, opposite the door, her back to the wall, and waited.
XXVII
Vortigern was a creature of habit. He liked his bed, liked even more the seclusion and peace his bedchamber offered. A place in which to deliberate and plan ahead; a quiet, undisturbed cocoon where he could think upon the day past and the day to come. This morning the evening’s Gathering occupied his thoughts. It should prove interesting, amusing even to observe Hengest and his clamour of jute Elders and Thegns sitting opposite a sullen-faced Roman Council. Things looked set fair for a promising event! A few knots to be untangled; whispers to be dropped in ears, promises or threats to be made – ah, that was the irritating thing. Vortigern wriggled his shoulders deeper into the comfort of his pillows. There were those few who were still mumbling their misgivings about this unconditional giving of land to Hengest. He cracked his fingers, delighting in the pleasant nastiness of the sound. They would come to his way of thinking; that, or be subtly reminded of debts or taxes yet to be paid.
A discrete tap on the door interrupted his musing. He growled an answer, beamed a smile as Melwas entered. “Ah, nephew, come in. A good voyage?”
“A very good voyage!” Melwas replied with an expressive sweep of his hands. Seating himself at Vortigern’s bidding he took wine from a slave, drank thirstily.
“You found my daughter?” Vortigern asked, motioning for another pillow to be placed behind his shoulders.
The question must be answered, but Melwas hesitated.
Astute, the King caught the pause, frowned suspiciously across the room at his sister’s son. “I trust Winifred is in good health?”
Melwas nodded eagerly. That he could answer. “She is very well.” He added, “We encountered a Breton trading ship as we sailed out from Adurni.”
Vortigern grunted as he pummelled at a lump in the stuffing of the pillow, hardly listening.
“We took it.”
Absently the King said, “Good, good.”
“The haul paid the crew well.”
“Even better.” Vortigern was not to be sidetracked. “What is it you are not telling me about my daughter?” He snorted in disgust. “I assume she was disgruntled that I have forbidden her divorce from Arthur. She always was one to want her own way.” He fixed Melwas with his small, sharp eyes. “Is she still planning to plot against me with Rowena? The pair of them have dangled fingers in the forbidden honeypot for years.”
Melwas’s laugh at Vortigern’s thin pretence of humour was a little overdone.
“Is there more?” Vortigern had a niggling feeling the pleasing day he was looking forward to was about to turn sour.
Melwas toyed with the remainder of his drink. “This is an excellent wine. Greek, is it not? Uncle, it is good to be back in your service again.” He looked sheepishly at the floor. “I was an ass to stay away so long.”
“You are often an ass, nephew. You let anger rule your better sense. Be that as it may, I know you well enough to see there is something you are not telling me.”
The younger man shifted on his stool, fidgeting uneasily. “As I said, Winifred is well. She sends her devotion to you and is, as you ordered, under escort to Caer Gloui.”
Vortigern was not satisfied; there was something more here. He said, “It will be easier to keep a close eye on her alongside her mother and young brother, Vitolinus.” Did not add that his villa of Caer Gloui had high, secure walls and a dependable British guard. And that it was many safe miles distant from Hengest.
Melwas raised an eyebrow at the King’s revelation. This was unexpected. “You have sent the Queen and your son west also?”
Vortigern chuckled. “She was most annoyed. My two clucking hens can sit in their roost and share their impotent scheming! I do not intend to take Hengest’s word of fealty unquestioned, Melwas. Rowena is too ambitious, particularly now she has a son to dandle on her knee. She would like to reign as Regent in his name, her and her father between them.” He laid a finger on his nose. “It has been done before, you know: mother kills father for infant son to rule.” He nodded his head slowly, deep in thought, adding, “This night I finalise my greatest treaty and pay Hengest off into the bargain. I regarded it best to have his daughter and grandchilder safe beyond his grasp, just in case there were any bright ideas hatched a’tween them.” He wagged a solemn finger. “You do not quieten a chained dog by parading a bitch on heat before him.”
So, Melwas had learned something this day he had not known. “You do not trust Rowena, then?”
Vortigern laughed. “Trust her? Trust a woman – a wife? I would as soon trust a starving beggar to ignore a bannock of bread cooling on the kitchen sill!”
“She is a hostage then, against Hengest?”
The King stretched and yawned, threw the bedclothes aside and beckoned his slave forward to dress him. “She is my dearest wife, Melwas, but also a most convenient weapon to level at Hengest’s heart. He dotes upon his daughter and her infant son.” His voice became muffled as his head disappeared beneath a garment. “All his kind have this close affinity with kindred.” He resurfaced, stood as the sl
ave tied lacings. “It is the same with these tribal British – owing this, that and the other. Loyalty to kin! Pah, can’t see the reasoning of it myself.”
Raising the last of his wine in salute, Melwas gestured agreement. The King would not see the loyalty of brother to brother, father to son, would he? To gain wealth and power Vortigern, as a young man had murdered his own elder brother and his father, was often close to doing the same with his grown sons.
Dressed, waving the slave away, Vortigern returned to the subject of his daughter. “So Winifred is well, but…?”
“But, my Lord?”
“What is amiss?”
Puffing out his cheeks, Melwas spread his hands wide. “She refused to leave the estate where I found her. The Pendragon has apparently signed the land over to her. She demanded to know where he was and, when I told her, insisted he be set free.”
“God’s truth!” Vortigern turned to his nephew in amazed surprise. Was the girl totally mad? “What is she playing at? I receive a letter begging my help in securing an immediate divorce – and now she is pleading for the bloody man’s life!” He paced a few steps, then turned to Melwas again. “What ails her?” He scowled. “Has she decided to back the Pendragon?” Vortigern kicked at the side of a chair. “There is some scheme for the Pendragon to ally with Hengest against me, eh?”
Melwas brought a sealed document from his pouch, held it a moment in his hand. It would be betraying the trust of his cousin to pass it over, but his loyalty was to the King. “She paid one of my men to deliver this to Arthur – she assumed her gold was enough to keep the thing secret.” He half grinned. “My men know better than to go against me.”
Vortigern took it, looked with distaste at the small roll of parchment. “You know what is in this?”
Melwas spread his hands, affronted. “My Lord King, it is addressed to Arthur.” His grin widened. “Of course I know what is in it!”
The Kingmaking Page 41
