The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  “My dream is still with me, Gwenhwyfar. Unaltered, save that I may have tidied up the ragged edges along the way of growing up. Come with me, as my wife.”

  She looked into his eyes. Few could read Arthur’s thoughts; few were allowed to see beyond those veiling outer shutters that kept the inner feelings safe hidden. Gwenhwyfar alone could see into his heart, see as clear as if looking into a clear pool. Her free hand went up to his cheek, caressing, a delicate touch. He was unshaven, the prickle of stubble sharp on her palm. He smelt of horse and leather, rain and sweat. His wet hair was stuck against his forehead and hanging limp about his neck.

  “I recall you making a promise to me once, Gwenhwyfar, close by Gwynedd’s sacred Stone. You vowed your sons to me.”

  She smiled at that. “You remember, then?”

  “I would not forget it.”

  “This son I bear you shall be the first of many.”

  Tentatively Arthur stretched out a hand to touch her bulk. “It is mine, then?” He asked it hesitant, afraid of hearing the wrong answer.

  Gwenhwyfar pressed his hand down firmer. He jumped, astonished as a tremor jerked at his palm.

  “Would a babe acknowledge any man other than his Da?” she said for answer.

  He stroked a finger lovingly down her cheek. She was thin, pale, needed feeding and loving. There were things he had to ask, had to know.

  “I know what…” He paused. He meant to say ‘Melwas’, but found he could not say that name aloud. “What he did to you. Cei, others, have guessed it. This child – you are sure it is…?”

  She bit back the threatening tears, knew what he was thinking. And if he thought it, what of others? “Am I sure it is not his? Na, it is not, it is yours.” She attempted to swallow her tears.

  Arthur was content. Nodded his acceptance, slowly, with deliberation. He held both her hands in his, rubbed their cold fingers. “Even if it had not been mine, I would still ask you to be my legal wife, Gwenhwyfar.”

  “Even though I carried his child?”

  Arthur scowled, had to admit, “I want you for certain. The child? In truth, were I not satisfied it was mine, then na, I would not accept it.”

  Scarcely breathing she asked, “And are you satisfied?”

  He said simply, truthfully, “Aye.”

  Gwenhwyfar kissed his eyes, his cheek, then his lips, held him to her, savouring his nearness, his firm responding hold. The nightmare had passed; she was awake and it was a beautiful day. The rain dripped through the leaves, pattered on her closed eyelids. Who cared about the rain? For Gwenhwyfar, the sun shone.

  A great sigh left her, her head lying on his shoulder, his hand rubbing her back. She said, “Even the simplest of men can see with their eyes and count on their fingers. This child was begun well before Melwas raped me.”

  She lifted her head, surprised at herself. The word had just come out, of its own accord. Not once since that first halting telling to Arthur had she spoken of the thing – not to herself, not to the Sisters or the Ladies. But now she had said it, and suddenly it was not so hideously frightening any more. She laughed, kissed Arthur again, revelled in his return kiss.

  She said, smiling radiantly, “Your son and I have waited so patiently for this day.” She tapped his chin with her finger. “We do not intend to be parted from you again.”

  He laughed, jumped up, lifted her to stand on the seat his arms encircling her broad waist. “Pregnancy suits you well,” he observed.

  “Mud and sweat,” she replied, wrinkling her nose, “do not do the same for you!”

  “Well that, woman, I am afraid, is a thing you need grow used to.” He gathered her to him, holding her weight easily in his arms. “Which way this church I have heard so much reverent talk about?”

  She dipped her head, puzzled, towards the east. “Over there, why?”

  “You will see.” Arthur carried her from the gardens and up the muddied lane, bellowing for Cei, who came running.

  “Get you to that church – fetch Emrys and Geraint.” Arthur shifted Gwenhwyfar to a more comfortable position, kept on walking. “And any other who would care to witness my marriage. Oh, and fetch me someone fitting to hear our vows – no poxed insignificant novice Brother, mind. Find a priest or something.”

  There was much shouting and running. Yns Witrin, normally a quiet, sleepy place, was suddenly filled with noise and activity. Sisters came bustling and twittering; Brothers, with less gaiety but as much curiosity. A Bishop came trotting from his quarters, solemn eyed, a little flustered. He did not have much occasion to solemnise marriage vows in a community of nuns and brethren.

  “A Christian wedding,” Arthur declared, setting Gwenhwyfar down before the church door. “So none may doubt or counter my claim on my Queen.”

  Geraint, with his wife, hurried up and slapped Arthur on the back pleased his cousin had found his lost love. He embraced Gwenhwyfar, kissed her and handed her to his wife who, smiling, welcomed her as kin. Arthur’s men, too, were crowding round, delighted. There would be a few days of relaxation now, and some good drinking and enjoyment ahead too if they were lucky. Aside, many knew Gwenhwyfar, remembered her quick wit and knowledge of horses. She was a woman well liked and accepted by Arthur’s men.

  Then it was Emrys’s turn. He had come to the church in a flurry of unease. He took Arthur aside while some of the Sisters and Geraint’s wife were twining hastily gathered flowers in Gwenhwyfar’s unruly hair.

  “My boy, it is my duty as your uncle, to ask if you are certain of this thing you do.”

  Thumbs hooked through his belt, Arthur took a step back from his father’s brother and regarded him through narrowed eyes, head cocked – for all the world like someone listening intently.

  Encouraged, Emrys rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, meaning to draw him a little away from the crowd. Resolute, Arthur stayed put.

  “She is of good birth, I grant, Arthur, but – well, lad, I must be blunt – I think you are acting hastily. This child – it is not seemly for you to marry with her while she carries it. There will be talk, speculation.” Emrys cleared his throat, realising belatedly this was not going well after all. “Let her have the child and, whether it be boy or girl, give it to some holy house for rearing where it will serve good by being with God but will also be soon forgotten, and then take her as wife. It is my advice, lad. Sound advice.”

  Gwenhwyfar had come up behind him. Arthur looked over Emrys’s shoulder at her, said, “What say you to my uncle’s advice, Gwenhwyfar?”

  Her cloak had been gathered around her against the damp and cold, but now Gwenhwyfar tossed it back and walked proudly to Arthur’s side, showing her swollen figure for all to see. She threaded her arm through his. “I think that to advise our next king to set aside his first-born heir is most unwise. I might almost think, my Lord,” she addressed Arthur but looked with open challenge at Emrys, “any who would give such advice must have his own reasons. Happen he does not welcome a son born to the Pendragon because he has an eye on a royal torque for himself? There were many who were privately glad when Uthr was slain, not expecting a son to come after him.”

  A single, curt incline of his head saw Arthur agree with her. He took Gwenhwyfar’s hand, began to walk with her inside the church. He halted on the threshold. “There are those who, for whatever reason, did not back my father when he took his chance to rid this country of tyranny and greed. There will be those who, for the same reasons, will not back me. I will say this to those men. I give not a damn whether you pledge me your sword or not. I will be king, and my son,” he laid his hand on Gwenhwyfar’s stomach, “my son, will be king after me.”

  He looked with challenging defiance at Emrys. Uthr had never liked his younger brother, had said once – and Arthur remembered this from childhood, “A young man who spends more time with his books and on his knees before God is a man I would trust to hear my confession or to give spiritual guidance. But I would not trust such a man to guard my back with a sword. Boo
k learning can make a man think he knows many things; book learning serves no purpose when you are faced with the blood red death of an enemy.”

  “You serve your conscience as best you will, Uncle Emrys. I have already taken Gwenhwyfar as mine in the manner of the Old Way; I now take her in the Christian way. I am happy with that. If you are not, well then, that is for you to grieve over, not I.”

  The Pendragon, polite, nodded dismissal to his uncle and took Gwenhwyfar inside the church. Emrys did not follow.

  A small girl had wandered unnoticed into the crowded church. She had never seen inside a Christian building before, was awed by its dazzling whiteness and the gleam of gold arrayed on the altar. It was a wonderful place. She watched from a secretive corner, enthralled as Arthur and Gwenhwyfar exchanged their vows. Felt the laughter and happiness that soared in this peaceful little building.

  When Arthur led his bride from the church, he saw the child and smiled. Impulsively he tossed a small bronze coin at her. She made to catch it, missed, her face puckering at the humiliation of her clumsiness before this great crowd. Arthur stooped, picked it up, placed it in her hand, curling his fingers around hers. “Do not cry, little one, I will not have tears shed this day.” Then he was gone, and all the dazzling people with him.

  No one had ever smiled or spoken to her in kindness before. She had never known laughter, happiness or love. Her only companions were slaps and bruises, tears, and fear of her mother’s temper and violent hatred.

  Morgaine was always to remember Arthur for his kindness. Remember and love him for it, although she knew her mother would be angered, and probably beat her were she to know of it. For Morgause hated Arthur, wanted him dead. Morgaine knew that because her mother had said so, not an hour since.

  December 455

  XXXVI

  Caer Arfon seemed no different. The solid timber palisade rose formidable from the sea wall, the Lion flag of Gwynedd fluttered lazily against a backcloth of bracken-browned, snow-shawled mountains. Gulls wheeled and cried, the sea beat its restless pulse of incoming, outgoing tide. It all seemed much as Gwenhwyfar had left it.

  Sliding an arm around her broad waist, Arthur pointed to the nearing wharf. “We are here. I promised you your son should be born in Gwynedd.”

  “Our son,” she corrected amiably, settling her weight against him. She filled her lungs with the sea air of home, closed her eyes, savouring the fresh tang of salt. Her husband’s pleasing nearness.

  They had been at sea two days; their first chance of private conversation and close contact. The ship boasted one bed, which had become Gwenhwyfar’s, and Arthur had curled with his men under blankets on deck, when he had found time for sleep. Most of the journey he had passed in deep discussion with the captain, taking a keen interest in the mysteries of navigation and handling the craft. Never one for idling, he took the opportunity to learn and appreciate new skills, absorbing the ways of the sea with an eagerness matched by the crew’s willing patience to explain.

  Wind and weather had remained calm, but the sea had been heavy, the small coast-hugging craft wallowing in the swell like a bloated whale. Gwenhwyfar had sailed or paddled boats almost since before she could walk, was used to the sea but perhaps because of her bulk and her anxiety to get home, this journey had been nothing but sickness swamping her belly. She rested the back of her head against Arthur’s shoulder. In a little while she would be walking on firm ground – thank the gods!

  The babe was causing her discomfort. Its head was low down, pressing on birth canal and bladder, hard in the pit of her womb when she sat or walked. The necessity to relieve herself frequently was irritating. Her only comfort that the ungainliness of advanced pregnancy would soon be over – this voyage home to Gwynedd was left late for peace of mind.

  Then, too, the foetid odours of that unpleasant stronghold they had come from still clung. Savouring the fresh air, she said, “I was concerned that we would be entombed with Meirchion in Dumnonia for ever.”

  Arthur laughed. “He was rather tedious.” Leaning over the rail, he studied the foaming water swirling against the hull. “A hesitant man,” he said, “unsure where to lay his wager until the winner becomes a certainty. It took a while for him to decide which way to bend, with me or Vortimer.”

  “He knows you for what you are then, husband.”

  Arthur looked at her suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “That your fingers are itching to bleed each wealthy man dry. Meirchion and my brother to head the list.”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Certainly so! In Enniaun’s case you want every ounce of horseflesh he owns for next to nothing in return.” She relented, her smile twitching into laughter. She twined her arm through his when she realised he had taken her seriously. “I am teasing!” She sighed, placed a light kiss on his cheek. He was so quick to take offence these days; living on a knife-edge, sinking often into a brooding silence.

  He did not answer her, was watching the shore coming nearer.

  Gwenhwyfar pulled a little away from him, leant her arms on the rail as he did, looked out over the tossing grey sky. The Caer ahead was growing larger – another five, ten minutes and they would be there. Could she never say the right thing to Arthur? If being king meant constant bickering, then she would rather he decided on a more agreeable role. Gods, if she were ever queen, would she have to visit other such places as Meirchion’s stink of a stronghold?

  She shuddered at the recollection of the place, her features wrinkling into a grimace of distaste. An ordeal was not the whole of it!

  “Almost eight days was I cloistered with that odious wife of his,” she said to the sea. “Phew, God knows when she last bathed!” Gwenhwyfar scratched her head, still feeling the itch of parasites; numerous washings in salt water scooped by the bucketful had seen them gone, she hoped. “I shall scream if I find any fleas from that place on me!”

  Arthur whistled through his teeth, his quick anger forgotten. He held her, the embrace awkward because of her size.

  “You are complaining? I had Meirchion himself. Did he ever cease eating? I think I did not see him once without some form of food clasped in his greasy paw. Chewing all the time he ducked and swerved, talking of everything under the sun but the reason why I was there. When I did finally manage to get in a word about the holding of land, he went off on a separate path about the whys and wherefores of his right to possess it because of his service to Vortigern. Service? Fah! Grovelling, I call it. Like a pig at the trough.” Arthur spat over the side.

  “Poor Meirchion,” Gwenhwyfar said, finding some little pity. “After all these years when he thought himself secure, you arrive unannounced, tell him you are now lord and demand his allegiance.” She laughed. “He did stop eating, Arthur, I saw him. For a full minute he stopped chewing as we entered – his jaw hung open like a hooked fish!”

  “I did not demand. And he was not that surprised to see me, knew well I would come one day.”

  “We were in danger, Arthur. Had he a named heir, Meirchion would have had us murdered before the sun set on the day we arrived.”

  The ship was slowing, the square blue sail flapping as the men hauled it down from the central mast. Others sat waiting, poised to dip oars into the churning sea.

  “If he had such an heir I would have approached the matter differently.” Arthur gazed outwards. There were people gathering on the shore. “I chose the path I took because Meirchion is a superstitious man; he would not harm an unborn child.”

  Gwenhwyfar moved away, standing squarely behind him, hands on hips. She had just realised what he had done. “You took me as security, didn’t you? Did it not occur to you that you might be goading Meirchion beyond endurance? There are ways of achieving what you need. Openly declaring war if he refused to do as you say is not very diplomatic.”

  “What was I to do then?” He turned, rising to her anger. “Meirchion, I care not whether you side with me or Vortimer now his useless father is destroyed. Pleas
e, suit yourself; use my rightful inheritance of land, wealth and men against me. I assumed you had more sense, wife!”

  “As I assumed you did!” she shouted back at him.

  The ship bucked as the oars dipped and pulled, banking the craft sharply to the steer-board side. Misbalanced, Gwenhwyfar lurched forward, caught by Arthur who lunged swiftly to avert a fall. He held her a moment, then kissed her.

  “Remove that pout of displeasure,” he said. “You are right. As you usually are.”

  He braced her weight against his own body, steadying her against the manoeuvring craft. “I was full aware of the danger to you and the child, but I had to take the gamble. I need Meirchion’s willing agreement to back me, and I needed you for protection.”

  Gwenhwyfar opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her words with a second kiss.

  “For all his blustering, he understood the position as well as I, Cymraes. Since the day your Da declared me as Uthr’s heir, Meirchion has known he could lose all – so could I – if war broke out between us. Yet I could not risk complacency. I had to enforce the threat of aggression, or gain nothing from him.”

  “And knowing you were going to threaten, you walked us openly into his lair?”

  Arthur grinned, kissed the tip of her nose. “Guessing Meirchion would chance fighting me, but never your kin. You were my pass to safe keeping.”

  “You took a great risk, Arthur.”

  “My whole future is a risk, love. Our future.”

  Gwenhwyfar looked earnestly up at the man before her. Arthur stood several handspans above her own height – a tall man, as his father had been. Dark-haired with those piercing hawk eyes. “You will keep the promise you made him?” she asked, suddenly unsure and afraid of this callousness she had not seen in him before.

  Vaguely he answered, “Happen.”