The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  The man shook his fist. “You are not thinking to ride through this town with that rabble in attendance?” He was shouting, red-faced, pointing at the sixty mounted men of Arthur’s two turmae.

  Arthur halted Eira, swung round in his saddle and regarded the men behind him, as if he were surprised to find them there. He scratched the stubbled beard on his face and sniffed loudly. “I am not thinking of it, old man,” He nudged his horse forward at a walk, his men following.

  Cheeks scarlet, the elderly man stepped in front of the stallion, causing Eira to toss his head and lay his ears back. Arthur eased a hand down the rain-soaked neck.

  “I will not tolerate unlawful gangs of, of…” the man blustered, seeking an appropriate word, “of heathen Vandals entering this town!”

  Arthur half grinned at Cei. “Not even one or two.”

  Cei chuckled.

  “There is nothing amusing about this.” The man’s voice was rising. “You army people are all the same, think you own the place. Unless you have come to help shore the river banks against flood, get you gone.” He waved his arm about, setting the horses dancing.

  Arthur had heard enough. “In the first place, my men are not a rabble. They are a trained, disciplined cavalry unit. Secondly, we have ridden many miles in this incessant rain. We are cold, wet, hungry and tired. My men and their horses require shelter.”

  “Then seek it outside the town.”

  “There are inns aplenty within. And third,” Arthur leant forward across his stallion’s neck, said emphatically, “I am not thinking of riding through, I am riding through.”

  He spurred his horse forward, the animal responding to the pressure of heel and leg, shouldering the obstructing man aside.

  The two turmae rode solemnly past, not daring to let the laughter inside them show, leaving the man shaking his fist and spluttering apoplectic oaths.

  The inns welcomed them with pleasure, grateful for custom. Travellers were few and far between this wet weather.

  After seeing men and animals well settled, Cei and Arthur retreated to a quiet corner of their chosen quarters, welcomed the steaming bowls of broth placed before them.

  “I rather think you ought not have angered the old man.”

  Arthur sucked broth from his bowl. “Daft old dung-heap.”

  “Na, you will not be famed for being a leader with tact,” Cei grinned.

  “Tactics, not tact, interest me more.” Mopping up the last of his broth with a chunk of bread, Arthur pushed away the empty bowl and reached for wine. “They annoy me, people like him. First to complain, first to belly-ache and whine. Last to do anything. How many give a toss about what is happening east of here? How many give a damn about Vortigern’s failed, blundering policies and this mess we are mired in?”

  Cei wiped spillage from his lips. The broth had been good. “More than we would give credit for. The Hibernian raid heavily along the coasts.” Cei signalled to the innkeeper for a refill. “These people are as aware as we are of the dangers in losing control.”

  “Oh aye, they are aware. As you say, sea-wolves come along the coast looking for land ripe for the taking. Go fight the Saex, keep them from our doorstep, they say. Yet when it comes to paying the army or hosting us for a night, Caer Gloui and such towns are of a sudden safe within their walls, have their own militias and weapons. The army is not needed. Not wanted. Go away. Fah!” He spat into the fire, sending up a hiss of sparks.

  The innkeeper’s daughter brought the broth and a second jug of wine, good quality stuff set aside for men of rank and means. Her liquid dark eyes met with Arthur’s. She blushed, lowered her gaze.

  “The bathhouse is available should you require its use,” she said shyly. Arthur’s line of sight flickered to her rounded bosom; glanced at a figure who sat hunched and dozing, his clothes steaming, before the heat of the fire.

  “Gladly would I accept such an offer,” Arthur indicated Cynan, “but my servant is asleep. He is a faithful lad and I have not the inclination to disturb him.” Rubbish. What were servants for? The girl blushed a second time, said quietly, “I am sure I can arrange an alternative attendant, my Lord.”

  Arthur grinned at that, pushed the bench from him as he stood. “Then lead on, girl.” He winked at Cei, who stretched, laughing.

  “No tact,” Cei said. “Open and obvious!”

  XXXII

  Shaved, clean, and relaxed from a night of pleasure and sleep, Arthur entered Vortigern’s private residence sited beside a curve of the Hafren two miles beyond the west gate of the Caer. It was still raining and the river, Arthur noted absently, was already lapping against the outer wall. He was not surprised to find Winifred and her mother expecting him.

  Winifred ran to Arthur as he drew rein, skittering out from under the portico, her veil tossed carelessly over her head, feeble protection against the pouring rain. She embraced him, kissed him, her mouth lingering on his, her fingers delicately touching the remaining bruises on his skin. Letting him know she wanted him, had missed him.

  He did not brush her aside, but then neither did he return the embrace and kiss. The opposite of her desire; let her know he did not want her, did not miss her.

  Clinging to his arm Winifred walked inside with him, staying close, her body brushing against his, heedless of his wet clothing.

  Slaves bustled forward to take wet cloaks, offer wine and remove boots. Arthur shed his cloak, drank down a goblet of wine, kept his boots.

  “Did you receive my letter? I had to take great care lest Melwas discover it – or Mother. She was plotting with grandfather. I had to warn you, dearest.” Winifred spoke breathlessly, in a whisper, fearing her mother might discover her betrayal. Rowena was not one to cross, not even for her daughter. “Thank God you are safe through it!”

  Winifred pressed herself against him, resting her head on his chest, her arms tight around his waist. Of all the stupid, pathetic things, she meant it, actually meant it! “When we heard of,” she swallowed, “of what happened, I was so afeared you too had been killed.” She smiled up at him, loving him. God alone knows why, she thought. “I was so relieved to hear you were come to Caer Gloui. I have been kept here at my father’s command, not allowed to leave. Have you come to take me home?”

  Arthur had not answered, had walked away from her into the living quarters to where Rowena was waiting.

  Winifred trotted to keep pace with him. “I risked much to warn you into stopping my father holding that Gathering, or at least for you to act well on it.” She broke into a sudden broad smile. “But you did. You did act. Oh, Arthur, I knew I could be of help. I knew by betraying Mother and Hengest, I could open the way for you to claim your title.” She linked arms with him, prattled on about Melwas coming for her at the estate, forcing her to leave. “The brute was so rough and insolent. I managed to bribe one of his men to take the letter – I had fears my father would not let you free, but I thought, as my husband, he would be honour-bound to release you.“

  Arthur stopped dead, plucked her hand free of his arm. “Shut up, you stupid woman!”

  For a moment Winifred was taken aback. Her face began to crumple, her lip to quiver, but he was not watching, had walked on. She took several deep breaths, followed him, excuses formulating. He is tired and wet through; he is king now, has much on his mind. Gleefully mused, With Arthur King, I am Queen!

  “I have heard rumours.” Rowena reclined along a couch, dressed richly, one hand resting lightly on the headrest. She inclined her head as Arthur entered, said, “Are they true?”

  “If you are asking is it true that your father’s wolf pack has shrugged itself free from the leash, then aye, it is true.”

  If she was pleased, her face gave nothing away. “And my husband?”

  “He matters no more. Vortimer has the kingdom now.”

  Winifred had entered a little behind Arthur. She ran to his side. “What? But you are the Pendragon. You are to be king!”

  “I am content for Vortimer to rule
.”

  “No!” Winifred stamped her foot. “I warned you of this uprising so you could be there to step in.” Too late, her hand covered her mouth, head swivelling towards her mother.

  Rowena’s eyes had narrowed. What was this? Her daughter turned betrayer? She had no opportunity to question, for Arthur was speaking to his wife.

  “You are so fond of me then, Winifred? Yet a few months past you were prepared to flee to the Saex, keep my child from me and make plea for divorce. You must love me well!”

  Her arms twined around his waist. “I do. I was so confused and scared for the child then; you were close to death – and,” she pointed accusingly at her mother, “and she made me do it.”

  Rowena sat composed. “I? Nonsense, daughter. You begged for my help, said you could not abide the foul-mouthed, slime-trailed man you were forced to call husband.” Only a woman such as Rowena could remain so pleasantly smiling while delivering insults.

  Beneath the calm exterior she was furious. So! Winifred had turned against her, was sidling up to this posturing braggart, Pendragon. Was after being Queen herself, no doubt. Beyond that, she was angry with Vortigern for sending her to this accursed place. How dare he usher her off like some scolded child! Then, she was angry with her father for taking action while she was unable to reach a place of safety. She had expressly said in her last communication she needed to be there when he struck, to claim the status of king for Vitolinus. And she was angry with Arthur for being who he was.

  She talked smoothly, hiding her rage. “It was you who talked of divorce and of ending your marriage, not I.”

  Winifred had always known her mother was a bitch, had seen her tongue lashing a variety of unfortunates. Until now, the sting had never been aimed at her. Well, she was her mother’s daughter, had watched and learnt and copied. Could be just as much the bitch.

  “Because you put the idea in my mind. You ought not have trusted me, Mother. I know all the details of that planned murder. She forced me to run, Arthur, threatened me and our child – and you. She said she would have you murdered if I did not do her bidding.”

  Clinging to him, Winifred implored Arthur to believe her. “It was God’s providence you rescued me. I am your loyal wife, I will serve you well as Queen.”

  Rowena broke in quickly. “My son is named heir. If Vortimer is calling himself King I, as Regent, shall have him arrested on a charge of treason.”

  Arthur smiled, strolled to a couch and seated himself, placing his muddied boots on the fabric coverings. “Vortimer is the first-born son – and is not tainted by Saex blood. You and your kind are no longer wanted here.”

  “Without my father’s help, these shores would be harassed tenfold from what they are now.” Rowena’s composure was weakening. “My father’s people kept to their side of the bargain; it is you British who have lied and cheated and stolen from us. Add to that, my brother fought well against the northern uprising, or have you forgotten?”

  “Na, Lady, I have not forgotten how your brother, on your husband’s orders, murdered Typiaunan, eldest son to Cunedda of Gwynedd.” Arthur spoke quietly, his disgust intense. “It seems cold blooded murder sits well on Saex shoulders.”

  “My father sought just payment. Council has brought this destruction.”

  “Have you finished?” Arthur growled. “It was your Saex who hid their daggers. The British were unarmed. Most were old men. Helpless, defenceless old men. What brave people you are! Thank you, Winifred,” his mocking, pleasant smile lingered on his wife; “I will have wine.”

  She glowered – she was no servant to order about. None the less, she fetched and poured wine.

  He drank, belched, wiped his mouth and swung his legs from the couch. “You talked of treason.” He went to stand before Rowena, one hand resting on his sword. “You are under arrest. I am here to hang you.”

  Rowena turned white, her hand, gold and silver bangles jingling, flying to her throat. “But I am the Queen!”

  “No longer. You are Hengest’s daughter and you are to die. Here and now.”

  Rowena thought fast. She must gain time. “What of my son?”

  “What of him?” Arthur examined a bowl of dried fruits, took a selected handful, stood chewing. He wondered how long Vortimer would last. The man was too soft, you needed an iron stomach to survive in this game.

  He went to the closed door, opened it. Beyond were two of his own guard. “You have a choice, Rowena. Die now, quietly, or on the morrow after my men have enjoyed you.”

  “You have no right!”

  Winifred saw a chance. She simpered up to Arthur, took his hand between hers, held it to her breast.

  “The Pendragon has every right.”

  Arthur patted her holding hands with his free one, smiled down at her. “You, wife, will be keeping your mother company.”

  “What!” Winifred paled, tried to pull away, but he held her fast. Gwenhwyfar had told him of Ceridwen, briefly, a few hurried words as the horses had been saddled. Enough.

  “But I sent you warning, I tried to help you I…”

  Arthur could be so cold behind that safe, deceptive smile. “I never received such a letter. I know nothing of it. I have seen the evidence to assume you to be in league with Rowena here, so you are to die also, my sweet.”

  With one hand he stroked her cheek, seductively gentle. “You are no use to me alive. Your death will bring me all your wealth and solve the need for those messy little divorce settlements and such.”

  She should have known he would turn on her. Why had she bothered to try and help him? Why had she not, instead, paid Melwas to run him through? “If you plan to marry with your Gwynedd whore, you will be disappointed, husband. She is dead.”

  Arthur stared at her, his smile sudden gone. How did she know?

  Winifred saw the anguish course through him, realised, with jealousy, the deep love he felt for Gwenhwyfar. Inside she glowed with triumph. With her gone he would still need her as wife.

  Dry mouthed Arthur demanded, “Who told you this?”

  She was still standing close, but he had let her go. She took his hand in hers again, pressed it to her cheek, thinking quickly of a plausible answer. “From Caer Leon. Messengers are searching for you – they assumed you would be at the King’s new seat of administration. When they found you were not there they stopped here, naturally, knowing I was here. I sent them on to Londinium.”

  “Messengers?” This smelt like a rotting carcass. “What messengers?”

  Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming a little too quickly.

  “Why,” she said, “messengers from your mother. That last night, Gwenhwyfar was detained ill with that elderly farming couple, remember? It seems she was more ill than anyone suspected. She died.” In a sympathetic voice, she added, “I am so sorry. I assumed they had found you, assumed you knew. I know how fond you were of her.”

  Arthur swung his hand, his fist smashing into her face. Winifred screamed and fell, blood pouring from a broken nose.

  “You lying, murdering bitch! I have seen Gwenhwyfar this past week in Londinium. You failed!”

  Bear’s breath, no! Winifred lay crumpled on the floor, blood gushing. What had gone wrong? She had poisoned her. Gwenhwyfar was surely dead.

  He was calling for guards. They were coming into the room, spears and swords at the ready.

  Rowena, ignoring her daughter, had risen from her couch. “I am no fool, Arthur.”

  “That, I grant, is true,” he hissed.

  “I accept I have lost, I am to die. May I take a few moments to bid farewell to my son and make preparations to meet my God in privacy?”

  “Na, you may not.”

  Rowena tried again, polite, calm. Thinking, Damn you, you bastard, may you rot in Hell!

  “As a Christian, you cannot forbid me my prayers, Pendragon.”

  “Has your daughter never informed you? I care little for religion. I find it convenient to change faiths as the whim takes me. As you seem to
do.”

  “We are true Christians, as well you know,” Winifred retorted through the veil held to her face to stem the blood.

  “Do not talk to me, bitch!” Arthur shouted at her. “You are nothing to me, nothing except a discarded vessel where I once emptied my need.”

  She knelt on the floor, fingers bloodied. “Can I be blamed for loving you?”

  “Love? You know not the meaning of the word.”

  “Do I not? I have given you love in your bed, I have borne you one child, believe I carry another. I love you, husband – why else would I write you warning? What more can I do to prove myself? Our son, when he is born, will bear witness for me.”

  Arthur did not hear, not wanting to listen. He beckoned the guard. “Take them away.”

  “With respect, Sir, many among us are followers of Christ. We acknowledge the necessity for these ladies to hang, but you must in turn acknowledge their wanting to make peace with Our Lord.”

  Arthur roared his anger, came within a handspan of striking the man. “Are you challenging my authority, you insolent pat of cow dung?”

  Cei strolled in almost casually, as if it were only by chance he was passing, whispered in Arthur’s ear.

  Arthur cursed, kicked at the table sending fruit and bowl clattering to the floor. “Very well. A few moments only; have them close watched.”

  Cei spoke quickly to the guard, who saluted and ushered the women from the room, Rowena composed, Winifred weeping. “You realise she is playing for time, Cei? She will be hatching some means of escape.”

  “Your men will follow you to the edge of this earth, Arthur, but not if you deny them our God.”

  “I deny them nothing, so long as it does not interfere with me. And this interferes, Cei!”

  “Reject Christ if you will, but walk that dark path alone,” Cei flung the words at him and marched from the room, following in the wake of the group heading across the atrium for the private chapel. He called to a servant. “Summon the priest, and fetch the boy.”

  Furious, Arthur stormed to the outer courtyard where some of his men had already flung two ropes over the boughs of a sturdy tree growing close to the perimeter wall. “Will this be sufficient, Lord?”