The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  She reached the main roadway and found herself looking at a panic-stricken crowd flooding past. Men and women, mothers with babies in their arms, others with frightened children clutching at their skirts. Slaves and servants mingled with the free, all of them pushing and clawing their way forward, desperate to reach the gateways out of the city, to get to the open marshes and fields beyond, to head for the distant spread of woodland.

  Wild, drunken Saex were herding them, swinging forward into the terrified crush of people, slaughtering any they caught hold of, man, woman or child. Maiming and laughing.

  Two came close to Gwenhwyfar’s sheltered hiding place, engrossed in kicking some ragged thing before their feet. It struck against the wall a few paces before her, rolled away and was trampled and swept forward by other feet. The Saex, swearing and cursing at the loss of their plaything, reeled drunkenly after it.

  Sickness choked Gwenhwyfar as she recognised the thing. A child’s open-mouthed severed head.

  Trembling, she retraced her steps along the alley, back into the sheltered, quiet darkness of the squalid, mostly untenanted buildings. At a movement to her left she squeezed herself into a doorway, through the door hanging by its rusted hinges. Four Saex reeled from a corner wine shop, its frontage broken down by the industry of their axes. One carried an unstoppered amphora, its contents spilling out; the others, shouting with laughter, dragged a luckless slave girl. She was screaming, pleading for help that would not come. She kicked one of the brutes, who swore and threw her to the ground.

  His companions cheered as he unfastened his bracae.

  Gwenhwyfar crouched, buried her head, hands pressed tight to her ears. She did not want to see, or hear but she could not blot out the sounds and movement as the four of them took swaggering turns at the girl. Her screams rose with the first two, then faltered. After the fourth, fell silent after one last, shrill sound.

  The Saex lurched away, gulping their wine, searching for fresh sport. Eventually they met with a group of British soldiers, who dispatched the barbarians as dispassionately as the Saex had slit the girl open.

  Gwenhwyfar hesitated, unsure which way to go. To the palace, or back into the derelict quarter?

  Footsteps, the sound of boots moving nearer. A group of men, shadows only, at the intersection of alleys slightly to the left. Gwenhwyfar drew back into her safe place, flattening herself against the wall, her breath held.

  She had ready the dagger she had stolen from the guard outside Melwas’s room. One man stopped, bent over the body of the murdered girl. He swore vehemently. Ripping the helmet off his head, he wiped his hand over an ashen face.

  “What in God’s name is happening here?” he asked rhetorically.

  Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes for a joyous moment of thankful prayer, then ran forward, sobbing with relief, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Cei! Cei!”

  The man swung up, saw the running figure, stood alert with sword raised; glimpsed a face barely recognisable beneath blood and bruise.

  “Gwenhwyfar! What are you doing here?” She was in the safety of his arms, leaning against him.

  On his barked orders a protective wedge of men formed instantly around their commander and the young woman clinging to him. Cei managed to make a little sense out of her confused torrent of words, and using his brain, added two and two and came up, more or less rightly, with a tally of four.

  “Melwas is back?” he asked urgently, holding her from him. When she nodded, he swore a heathen oath. “Do you know where he is now?”

  She shook her head.

  One of the men, as grey-faced as his commander, said, “Let us pray to God we are not too late for Arthur.”

  Gwenhwyfar’s heart lurched. She put a hand to her mouth. “Arthur?” she cried. “He is here?”

  “Vortigern has him under arrest,” said Cei. He was looking up and down the alley as he spoke.

  Gwenhwyfar felt her legs go weak, and as she crumpled, Cei eased her to the ground, wrapped his own cloak around her.

  She came round almost immediately in a state of great distress. “I did not know Arthur was here,” she muttered. “What have I done?” She clutched at Cei’s hand, her nails digging deep into the flesh. “Melwas – does he know Arthur is here?”

  “It was Melwas who escorted him to the cells some days since.”

  The soldiers’ peering, anxious faces blurred before her. The words of her taunt at Melwas echoed like some evil chant. “Arthur!” she scrambled to her feet, pushing Cei aside, her pain forgotten. “He is in danger!” She was desperate to make them understand.

  “Aye, we know, that is why we are here, a last attempt to free him.”

  “Na, you could not know. Melwas, I told him – I…” Oh, they would not understand!

  Cei was holding her arm tight, keeping her close, steering her forward at a trot now as they neared the palace. Her foot stabbed, her legs and arms and ribs screamed with each breath, each movement of muscle, but she did not care, cared for nothing save running with Cei to find Arthur.

  They entered through the same service gate she had left by, save there were no guards there now. They could hear screaming and the smell of blood and fear hung heavy in the air.

  Cei would have preferred not to be encumbered by a woman, but what choice had he? Leave her – amid this madness of death and destruction?

  They waited within the palace walls to assess their next move, then ran to the rear of the kitchens. The screaming was louder here. “Why leave it so long before helping him?” Gwenhwyfar panted.

  Cei glanced at her. “I have been pleading with Vortigern all this while – tonight I gave up only to find the city crawling with Saex. They are like carrion come to pick over the dead.” He nodded back towards the city. “Particularly in that direction. I have lost three of my men getting this far.”

  They ran behind the height of a woodpile, paused for breath. The noise and stench reminded Gwenhwyfar of animal slaughter pens.

  The kitchen door was flung wide casting a beam of light across the courtyard. A woman lurched out, bleeding profusely from a near-severed arm. She came close, screamed as one of Cei’s soldiers caught her and dragged her into the shadows. They bound her arm, gave her drink from a leather flask; took some while to calm her.

  “What is happening?” Cei had to repeat the question over and over.

  All he could get at first were the words, ‘Saex’ and ‘killing’. Then, as she calmed, “The Saex have killed all at the King’s Gather! Now they slaughter servants and slaves also!” Cei looked at his men, stunned. But then, was it so hard to believe?

  “It had to happen,” one man said.

  Another said, “A mad dog eventually turns to bite his master’s hand.”

  They left the dying woman, tucking her for her safety deep behind the pile, then made their way slowly forward, dodging between buildings, killing those Saxons who reeled into their path, ignoring bodies strewn at their feet.

  Breathless, they reached Vortigern’s cells, a stone-built building at the farthest easterly corner of the perimeter walls.

  Cei ordered two men to stay outside, told Gwenhwyfar to remain with them.

  “I will not stay out here, with this!” She indicated the small rectangular courtyard and three bodies. Two men, one woman with her skirts thrown over her head, blood that had trickled down her thighs, drying.

  He did not like it, but said, “Follow, then. Stay well back.”

  She nodded, entering the narrow corridor into the building cautiously behind the men, feeling the comfort of the stolen dagger gripped tight in her hand. Cei motioned for silence. They heard Melwas’s voice ahead and his malicious laugh, followed by the sound of blows.

  Cei’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, his sword waving before him. They came to a corner and peered round, Gwenhwyfar shouldering her way through the men.

  Two Saex guards stood in an open doorway ahead. From beyond, Melwas’s voice.

  “I was ordered to kill you, an
d so I shall. Slowly and with pain, Pendragon. When they find you come morning they will think you were just another victim of these murdering barbarians. Make a fool of me, would you? I think not.” Melwas struck again – then felt, rather than heard, a movement behind him.

  He turned, gasped, as he saw two things. The guards falling dead, blood gushing from throats slashed open, and Cei lunging forward.

  For all his weight, Melwas moved swiftly, parrying the blow with the handle of his whip. They grappled. Melwas kicked out, sent Cei sprawling.

  He raised the whip, intending to strike Cei, but the blow never fell. Melwas slumped forward, blood trickling from his open, surprised mouth.

  Gwenhwyfar stared at the dagger in her hand, at the warm slime of blood sliding down the blade, staining her clenched fingers.

  One of Cei’s men ran forward and slashed through the ropes binding the Pendragon; another knelt over Cei, who lay dazed.

  With great effort, gasping from pain and lack of breath, Arthur pulled himself upright, stumbled to Gwenhwyfar. “You look as I feel,” he croaked. “I won’t ask how, or why, in all Hades you are here, I haven’t the energy.” He stared at her, a riot of emotions swirling within him. “All I can say is, thank every god that ever was or will be that you are, and that you are safe.”

  With a sob she flung the weapon away, and herself into his arms. He let her stay there, let her cry for a while, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing words, wincing as jolts of pain shot through his own hurts.

  She tried to speak once, but he shushed her quiet. “I know what happened, my Cymraes. He bragged of it to me.” The bastard, every detail.

  “You do not understand,” she sobbed, catching her breath. “I told him it was you who first had me; I did not know you were here.”

  The full impact of her mocking words to Melwas struck her. “He was going to kill you because we were lovers.” Her voice rose, hysterical.

  Arthur tried to calm her, holding her close, holding her tight, though it hurt; kissing her with difficulty through his own swollen lips. “He was here to do that anyway. Vortigern had given the order for it to be done this night, while all were occupied with this Gathering of treaty.”

  His head jerked up as Cei clambered to his feet, snorting, “Not treaty: massacre. The Saex have turned, made their move. Hengest picked the time and place well.”

  Arthur cursed obscenely. “There have been some happenings this night which will not be easily forgotten.”

  One of the men left on guard outside ran in. He saluted when he saw Arthur, carefully avoiding looking directly at the more obvious hurts on his body.

  “Sir, a few of the palace buildings have been fired and Lord Vortimer has at last arrived with soldiers – some of them our lads. They say Hengest’s rabble are too far gone with wine and bloodlust to put up much more of a fight. Most are taking to their ships.”

  Cei nodded curtly. “Detail four men to escort Lady Gwenhwyfar and the Pendragon to safety.”

  Arthur interrupted. “Hold that order, soldier! Four men to escort the lady, and someone to find me clothing of whatever sort, and suitable weapons; quickly!”

  The soldier saluted smartly and ran off at the double. Cei began to protest. “You are in no fit state to fight.”

  “On the contrary, I have never been fitter.” More gently, “Anger does wonders for the healing of hurts, Cei.” As he talked, Arthur rubbed at Gwenhwyfar’s arms, attempting to ease the trembling chill. Her eyes, hollow in sunken sockets, gazed at the spreading dark patch on Melwas’s cloak between the shoulder blades. She shuddered.

  “Let us leave here,” Arthur said, indicating the body. “She has seen enough horror for one day.” He added in lower tones, “And I’d not be sorry to leave.”

  “Like as not to see many more before dawn,” Cei muttered, taking one last look around as they made their way outside.

  Arthur gulped mouthfuls of sweet air, grateful that few had seen his conditions of imprisonment or noticed the haunted look in his eyes. Melwas had treated him brutally, but the beatings and floggings had been nothing compared to the enclosing darkness. He swallowed hard, fighting the remnant of his childhood phobia, unsure how he had survived the clutching terror of these past days

  But survive it he had. He was here, in the air, living and breathing. And impossibly, by some miracle that he had not yet fully absorbed, his beloved was here also.

  Clothing appeared, a Saxon tunic, bracae and short sword. Arthur made a noise of disgust but dressed without further protest. Even Saex weave was preferable to bare skin.

  “Lady Gwenhwyfar must be taken clear, then we will see to our business.” He clapped Cei’s shoulder, grinning. Fresh air and freedom coursed through him. He felt little of the swelling or bruising, nor the spiteful pull of lash marks across his back. Tomorrow would be time enough to wince and allow the shakes of fear to run their course.

  He beckoned a man to him. “What is the situation beyond the palace walls?”

  “None too good, Sir. Part of the city is burning – what they cannot loot they fire. The river is crammed with their ships. Little hope for the poor beggars who live out there, even with us now here.”

  Arthur scowled. The picture, although for a soldier a familiar enough one, saddened him. “This could be the end of Londinium. Plague; trade diminishing down the years to a dribble, and now this? Love of the Bull, Cei, did he not realise this would happen?”

  “Vortigern? I think not. He hoped ceding the Cantii territory would be enough for Hengest.”

  Arthur buckled on the sword belt, nodded in the direction of the stables. “We shall use the horses. I will not let good stock go to waste.”

  It took a while to bridle the stabled mounts, for the smell of blood and smoke and the crackle of flames made them uneasy and restless. Five were hastily saddled and four men mounted, leading the reins of the spare mounts. Arthur helped Gwenhwyfar on to the fifth. She winced as she seated herself, and patted the fidgeting horse, feeling a tingle of comfort on realising it was that same bay she had met earlier.

  Arthur gripped her thigh, smiled up at her. “My men will escort you through the city – the Saex are on the run by the sound of it. You should get through safe. Stay within the mass of horses, none shall touch you there. Once clear, go to our camp, rest there. I will join you as soon as I can.” Whenever that would be!

  He stepped away and slapped a hand on the horse’s rump, sending it springing forward. The others surged round and they set off at a canter, hurtling beneath the archway, through the gates and out into the streets. Drunken groups of remaining Saex sprang aside with cries of alarm as the hooves came trampling. The horses gathered speed, galloping now, ears laid flat, nostrils flaring in a frenzy to escape the smells and sounds of surrounding fear.

  The west gate loomed ahead, watchtowers standing empty, unmanned and shrouded in smoke and flame. The great gate stood wide, but a group of Hengest’s men stood ground before them, waving their arms and shouting. The leading horses, already terrified, baulked. One reared, throwing his rider. In an instant, the Saex were on them.

  XXX

  Londinium was finished. Not even on a battlefield had Arthur seen such carnage.

  Dressed in uniform now, after an hour’s snatched sleep, his hurts cleansed and salved and some welcome hot food in his belly, he limped through the smoking remains of the city. He poked at bodies with his toe, his frown of anger deepening.

  They had found Gwenhwyfar’s escort, their bodies horribly cut to pieces and hung like dead rats on the city gate. Four men, no woman.

  Arthur stopped by a naked female. Her body bulged with pregnancy, her eyes staring, mouth open, her screams frozen in death. He wondered if they had mutilated her before or after they had killed her. How many had taken her? She was little more than Gwenhwyfar’s age. He groaned, turned aside and was violently sick.

  The three men behind respectfully turned their gaze away from his grey, beard-stubbled face.

  Arth
ur walked on, one of the men stepped to his side said with quiet sympathy, “We will find her, Sir. We will.”

  Arthur looked at him, glanced meaningfully back at the girl’s body. “I am not entirely sure I want to.”

  They entered the palace grounds. More bodies, more blood. To the left, the prison cells. Arthur made to turn to the right, changed his mind, headed left.

  “Search over there,” he ordered, pointing away from the cells, “I have a task of my own to do.”

  It took him an eternity to step through the doorway from dull sunlight into musty darkness. Heart hammering, sweat trickling down his back he eased forward along the internal corridor.

  Melwas lay there, none having bothered with him. It was a petty thing to do but when he had finished Arthur felt an immense satisfaction of revenge. His only regret, the body was long dead. Punishment for rape should be dealt to the living.

  He stood upright, wiped the soiled blade of his dagger on Melwas’s cloak and left, hurrying from the oppressive place.

  Arthur was not a religious man. Save for his faith in the soldiers’ god, Mithras, he used appropriate gods as and when he required them. At this moment, he welcomed the belief of a world beyond, praying that the humiliation he had caused to Melwas’s manhood would reach the spirit and plunge it into internal suffering.

  The body was discovered some few days later by a Romano-British woman searching for food and safe shelter. She fled at the brief glimpse of a man’s mutilated body, his private parts hacked off and stuffed into his mouth. Telling others of the scene, she would add, “Wicked are these Saex! Barbarian wicked.”

  For Arthur, it had been small recompense, but Gwenhwyfar would appreciate the gesture. If he ever got to tell her. He bit his lip. She was not within the city, that much was certain and she had not reached the camp. If Hengest’s Saex had her, there was only one way to barter for her return. Exchange her for Rowena or Winifred.

  Rejoining them, Arthur growled at his men to follow. Cei was making his way across the bloodied courtyard from the direction of the great hall.