Pursing his lips Vortigern broke the seal, noting with a nod of approval how well Melwas had patched his own breaking of it. He read grimly.
“So, after the agreement of this treaty, Hengest is plotting with Rowena to murder me?” He tossed the parchment aside. “I knew that months ago.”
“Aye, but do you not find it interesting that Winifred is warning Arthur, and is offering to help him to do away with her mother and brother? With you dead, the country in turmoil and Rowena out of the way – the path would be clear for the Pendragon.”
Vortigern glowered and sat down in his comfortable high-backed chair. “So, my daughter aims to become Queen!” His eyes shone wickedly. “What ambitious kin I have!” The smile snapped off. “You managed to persuade her to Caer Gloui?”
“Eventually. She agreed when I promised to secure the Pendragon’s release.” Melwas grinned. “Unfortunate that I arrived back too late to stay his execution.”
Vortigern’s smile returned, his lips curling over toothless gaps. “Most unfortunate.”
“In light of this,” Melwas indicated the letter, “is it wise to have your daughter so near your wife?”
“Oh aye. They will be under close guard. Aside,” Vortigern cackled with amusement, “happen the one will do away with the other and save me the task.” He regarded Melwas shrewdly, added, “I assume you would enjoy disposing of Arthur?”
Melwas stood up. “It would be my pleasure.”
Aye, Melwas took much enjoyment from the suffering of others. He was an evil breed, which was why Vortigern liked him. His nephew had the stomach for these ‘unpleasant’ duties, unlike his two sons who complained and whined if such-and-such a thing was not right in God’s sight.
“The Pendragon is where you left him. A few days to sit and shiver and dwell upon his circumstances may be of use to his over-large sense of cock-sureness.” Vortigern rubbed his hands together, delighted. The day was looking good again.
“The Pendragons have been a boil on my backside over-long. It is time the nuisance was lanced.” He looked at Melwas. “He is to be dispatched with no undue attention. See to it this night. Minds shall be on this Gathering.”
Melwas agreed, began making to excuse himself but Vortigern lifted a hand to stay his going. “I would suggest a Saex blade would be best. It may be prudent to lay blame at the hand of our, er, friends.”
A nod of agreement. Melwas walked to the door, stopped, said with a half turn to the King, “That Breton ship.”
Vortigern had gone to a table, was busying himself with some papers. “What of it?”
“I took payment for myself also.”
Ah, Vortigern thought, there is more to tell, then! “In what form?”
“A woman.”
The King’s eyebrows shot up. “They use female sailors in Less Britain now, do they?” He warmed to the idea. “What a superb idea. A sure way to enliven the dullest sea voyage.”
Used to his uncle’s lewd humour, Melwas explained further. “She was a passenger. We had no trouble finishing her bodyguard.”
There it was again, a vinegar-sour threat to darken this sunny day, a sudden feeling his nephew was about to tell him something he was not going to like. “Go on.”
Uncertain whether it was wise to continue, Melwas was forced to plunge on. The old man was sure to find out sooner rather than later – best say now. “She was mine anyway, I have simply claimed my own.”
His voice lowering to an unpleasant growl, Vortigern said, “Go on.”
“The passenger was Gwenhwyfar of Gwynedd.”
The fool! Vortigern took three strides across the room, was before Melwas. “If a war comes because of this, you fight it alone!”
“Cunedda agreed the betrothal.”
“Cunedda is dead. I remind you he claimed the right of blood feud. Until it is settled the claim passes as inheritance from father to son.”
Vortigern laughed suddenly, his mood swinging away from ill humour. Cunedda’s sons would be furious! He slapped Melwas on the shoulder. “Good luck to you, lad. If you can hold her, then she is yours.” He held a finger up in warning. “Just remember, this is between you and Gwynedd. I will have nought of it.”
Pleased, relieved, Melwas said, “Then I have your permission to take her as wife?”
“Wife?” Vortigern was astonished. “Why do you want her as wife? Na, lad, keep her as mistress.” He noticed Melwas’s glower of displeasure, slapped his shoulder again. “Have it as you will! But take my advice, do not bother with formalities, at least not straight away. Take her as your woman now. Once she is in your bed and breeding, Gwynedd will be gagged, unable to shout over-loud.”
His nephew grinned by way of reply. “Exactly what I had in mind.” He bowed, anxious to put words into action but Vortigern stayed him. “Your lusting must wait awhile, lad; I have duties for you, details of this evening’s work. Let me break my fast – meet me within the hour.”
Melwas saluted, headed whistling for the kitchens to satisfy his growling belly. What a day! The end of the Pendragon and the taking of Gwenhwyfar. He sang a few bars of a Jute war song as he waited for the slaves to serve him.
XXVIII
Dusk. Gwenhwyfar heard the stamp of feet and thud of spears as guards stood rapidly to attention. This was it then. He was coming. She stood, clutching the fur around her, stubbornly not allowing the fear to show as Melwas entered. He brought two slaves, the woman who had come earlier, and a boy. Melwas threw a blue gown on the bed, noting the stripped linen. He sat beside the gown, ignoring Gwenhwyfar, allowing the boy to pull off his boots.
The woman shambled about the room lighting the lamps and candles. Melwas stood, the boy removed his leather and iron-studded war gear. “When I have done with you,” he said, talking to Gwenhwyfar but not looking at her, “you will dress yourself as befits a woman of mine.”
Standing in undertunic and bracae, Melwas picked up a boot, hurled it at the slave woman, striking her in the small of the back. She spun to face him, afraid. He gestured impatiently for her to leave, kicked at the boy, indicating he should also go. The boy scooped up his master’s body armour, retrieved the thrown boot and scuttled out behind the woman.
“A loyal slave, that woman,” Melwas mused, approaching Gwenhwyfar. “But damned useless at times, on account of her being as deaf as stone.”
Gwenhwyfar was able to master a blank expression. So that was why she had been ignored. The woman had not heard her. Ach, let Melwas taunt, it would get him nowhere.
He stood, arms folded, observing her makeshift robe, then he reached out to finger the untidy hair cascading around her shoulders.
“It is a pity I cannot show you off at the feasting this night. Ah, well. I will savour you for myself.” He wrinkled his nose at the distasteful smell which clung to her. “Should have had you bathed,” he muttered.
He attempted to kiss her but she pulled away. Melwas let her go a few steps, then lunged forward, grabbing her hair and pulling her back. He kissed her on the mouth, holding her firmly to him, with a free hand, felt inside the fur, took her breast, fondling the nipple as his mouth bruised hers.
“I have spoken with Vortigern,” Melwas said, his face close to hers; “he has acknowledged my claim to you.” His hand fondling beneath the fur pulled at the linen sheet; it fell to the floor. Struggling, Gwenhwyfar kicked at him with bare feet. With her hands, she clung to the fur, clasping it around herself.
He held her all the tighter, ignoring her flailing legs. His pawing hand moved down over her stomach, brushed her inner thigh, his fingers groping upwards and she brought her knee up, slammed it into his groin. He slumped, grimacing, let her go.
Gwenhwyfar fled for the door, but he was quicker, catching the trailing end of her covering, pulling it sharply, tripping her. She fell heavily and lay winded.
“As of this day you are my woman.” He stood over her, spoke with dark menace. She did not answer; he did not expect her to.
Slowly, taunting, he
removed his woollen shirt, revealing a muscled, hair-covered chest. He unhitched the leather belt at his waist, let the bracae fall, stepped out of them and stood naked. His intention, with his manhood rapidly swelling, obvious. Clasping her wrist, he hauled her upright, held her, crushing her mouth with his.
During the long day Gwenhwyfar had made her plans. She had intended to fight, if necessary kill herself before submitting, but now it was happening, brave ideals slid away. Was that not what he wanted – for her to scream and beg for mercy?
His broad soldier’s hand smashed her cheek, tearing the already bruised and tender skin. He wanted her to cower away, wanted to master and break her.
Gwenhwyfar remained still, silent, staring back at him. He found it unnerving looking into those green eyes that shone with calm defiance. Angered, he knocked her down and tore the fur from her, expecting her to shrink away or fight.
She lay motionless on the floor as he knelt astride her, pushed her legs apart and thrust himself into her, his impatience making him finish quickly and without much satisfaction. He withdrew almost at once, rage reddening his face. Yelling his fury he stood, beating and kicking her, shouting. “You bitch, you damned, heathen, whoring bitch!”
Gwenhwyfar laughed up at him, aware she had won. She made no attempt to ward off the blows, she just lay there laughing.
“Who took you first?” he bellowed, kicking his foot into her ribs. “Who claimed your maidenhood? What bastard was it?”
“Arthur,” she mocked, her body shaking, teeth chattering. “Arthur. He is a fine lover.”
Melwas’s hands were at her throat, squeezing, choking her. Panic, already close to the surface almost peaked, but Gwenhwyfar forced herself to think clear and calm. Relax. Let the body go limp, submit to his rage. She placed her hands on his, in a feint to prise the gripping fingers away, then moved quickly and precisely. Raising her hands she slashed at his eyes with a woman’s shaped nails. At the same instant she jerked her knee up, ramming home into his genitalia. With her hip, she thrust his pain-doubled body aside and, rolling clear, sprang to her feet. She grabbed for the water jug and smashed it over his head.
Crouching, holding the remaining broken shard before her as a weapon, she waited a long minute, but he lay unmoving.
Snatching up the gown he had brought, Gwenhwyfar ran to the door opened it and, throwing it wide, ducked low into the lithe, swift movement of a forward roll.
The guard, one of Hengest’s mercenary Jutes, had been dozing, not expecting Melwas to emerge for some while yet. His momentary hesitation, combined with her unexpected manoeuvre, gave Gwenhwyfar the precious time she needed. She jabbed the jagged, broken edge of the jug at his face, ripping through his eye.
He yelled in pain and surprise and dropped his spear.
Catching it before it touched the floor, Gwenhwyfar drove the iron tip through his chest, paused only to remove a dagger from his belt. She took to her heels, clothing clutched against her nakedness, thankful she had some knowledge of the complexities of the palace corridors.
She almost ran straight into a further group of Jute nobles making their way to join the noise of Vortigern’s great Council chamber. Changing direction along a side corridor, Gwenhwyfar found herself by a door leading to the gardens. Creeping into the shadows, she squatted, gaining breath and time to think.
Melwas was not dead, would be after her all too soon. The fine drizzle was soaking her hair and clinging uncomfortably to her naked skin. She shivered, her sweating body rapidly cooling. Tugging the woollen Saxon dress over her head, she found two brooches pinned to secure the shoulders. The jewellery, doubtless valuable, was, to her British eyes vile and repugnant, but would have to suffice for now. She fastened them quickly, then huddled into the shadows to plan her next move.
These gardens formed a square bordered by guest chambers opposite; the King’s private apartments to the north and on this east side. Along the fourth ranged the administrative offices. Over them, on the first floor, brooded the council chamber and the banqueting hall where Vortigern held his rare but magnificent feasts. Light blazed from every window.
The private apartments lay behind her. Beneath the centre of the illuminated first floor of the public rooms lay an archway leading out to the palace, flanked, she could see, by Hengest’s men, standing in knots talking and laughing. The torches beneath the archway and glow from the windows casting flickering shadows.
Opposite, through another central arch between the guest apartments, were domestic buildings and, beyond those the lower gardens leading down to the water gate. Would that, too, be guarded? Why so many of these Saex, so many lights and moving shadows beyond the windows? She could hear the distant hum of voices, the bark of male laughter. Melwas had talked of a feast. What was happening?
She eased forward, keeping low, wriggling on her belly where necessary, making full use of the concealing shadows from low walls, shrubs and hedges. Clearing the arch, running for the darker hiding places, she found herself in the domestic quarters. The unmistakable aroma of horses assailed her; urine, dung, hay. Few men were about here. She peered cautiously into the first barn, slid inside and ducking under a rail settled herself beneath the manger at the far end of the stall. The occupant, a wise-eyed bay of good quality, snorted and snuffed suspiciously at her. Losing interest, he returned to his hay.
Warmth, and the steady munch of horses eating was relaxing and soothing. Gwenhwyfar ached, every bone and muscle felt battered. Her right eye was barely open, her eyelid and cheek bruised. She hurt dreadfully where he had so roughly penetrated her.
Gwenhwyfar laid both hands on her belly, wondering. She had dwelt on this thing often during the long days at sea. Was the sickness all from the swell of the tide? The need to speak with a woman had been desperate, but impossible. But did she need confirmation? Her bleeding had not come, surely she needed no other sign? One thing to be thankful for, she had known before this night that she carried Arthur’s child, had known days before Melwas took her.
She trembled again as she remembered him. His grotesque form as he knelt over her, his leer of triumph as he had entered her. Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, felt the ground beneath her spinning.
She wanted to sleep, to find oblivion, but she could not, she was not safe here. At any moment Melwas and his Saex dogs might come searching. She managed to get to her feet, clung to the horse with his soft warmth and unyielding strength. Friendly, he nuzzled her, welcoming the company. Gently, she pulled one of his brown ears as a parting gesture and slipped back into the night.
From here she had no idea which way to go. Noticing a pile of discarded sacking she selected a suitable length and fastened it around her shoulders, using one of the gaudy Saxon brooches to secure it. She stole in the direction of the kitchens, hoping to blend in with scurrying servants and slaves. No one paid her any attention; she must look as shabby and dirty as any of them if her legs and feet were anything to go by.
A mule cart was making to leave by the narrow service gate. Taking her chance, Gwenhwyfar ran and, resting a hand on the back, walked behind the vehicle for all the world as if she belonged to the carter.
He never noticed her, being busy at the heads of the mules, and the guard at the gate did not glance her way. She was out!
Think quickly! The eastern area of the city, once a wealthy district, she knew to be almost derelict. It had been abandoned during the last plague to sweep through Londinium and no one had come back to claim property – happen they were no longer alive, or had no inclination to return. She ducked down a small side street between palace walls and shops, and ran silently on bare feet keeping to the shadows, ever watchful. Once, at a street intersection, she almost ran into a group of drunken Saex. Gwenhwyfar hid in a doorway, her heart pounding, and let them weave past. She was more careful after that.
The rain fell steadily. She was sodden, cold, and so very tired. With a sob of relief, found a building she remembered. She had walked through this obsolete corner of Lon
dinium one afternoon, attempting to escape the palace confines and Winifred’s tedium. How long ago was that? It seemed like centuries past.
This particular house she remembered well. It was large and had obviously belonged to someone of great importance. She had asked various people at the palace but no one seemed to know or care who its owner had been.
Apart from broken windows and its partly fallen roof, it looked habitable from the outside. She squeezed past the door which leaned askew from one hinge, and picked her way carefully through weeds and debris. Something scrunched under her feet, a sharp pain shot through her right sole. She muffled a cry and slumped against the wall, hunkering amongst the scatter of sharp-edged, broken roof tiles.
At least it was sheltered here, and away from the noise of the streets. In the distance she heard drunken men singing, and, further away, shouting. Nothing more.
XXIX
Gwenhwyfar must have slept, for a sound startled her awake. She groaned; her body felt as though it were being torn very slowly into pieces. The shouting she had heard earlier, before drifting asleep, was now louder, more persistent and definable. Shouts and cries. Frightened screams. Footsteps ran by, fairly close, nailed boots rapping along the cobbled road leading to the nearest city gate. More followed; a crowd of people panting as they ran, someone among them sobbing; the cry of a baby.
Clinging to the solidity of the wall Gwenhwyfar pulled herself upright, wincing as her cut foot touched the ground. Staying within the shadows she limped cautiously to a broken window and peeped out. As she bent forward, the sacking around her shoulders caught on something sharp and ripped. The brooch tumbled to the floor; she heard the chink as it fell, made no move to retrieve it. Let it lie among the shards of roof tiles for someone else to find! Ugly thing.
She could see nothing beyond the fallen building between herself and the road, except a vague blur of hurried movement. As quietly as she could, given the darkness and the rubble on the floor, Gwenhwyfar crept from the house, curiosity drawing her back in the direction of the palace, from where the confused sounds of distress came.
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