Gwenhwyfar was staggered by the desolation in her voice. “Are you not happy here?” she asked. “Does my brother not treat you well? Enniaun loves you, he has said so.” Gwenhwyfar was concerned. Her family would treat any deserving woman with respect – especially one brought as wife. Even to Branwen they had shown politeness, however grudgingly. She said confidently, “My brother would not keep a wife against her will – for all the alliances offered.”
Teleri bit her lip, aching to talk, to free herself of the unbearable loneliness. She must take this chance to speak out, the opportunity might never come again.
“It is not that I am unhappy. My husband treats me well, as do his brothers and their wives.” She added with a show of courage, “Though I am glad I never had cause to meet with the one they call Branwen.” Staggered at her impertinence she said hastily, “It was with sorrow that I learnt of Osmail’s death. I pray often for his soul.”
Gwenhwyfar smiled and slid her arm through Teleri’s, inviting her to walk. “That is kind – thank you. The whole stronghold was relieved when Branwen passed beneath the gate!”
Teleri’s brow creased. “Then you were not friends with her?”
“Friends? By Heaven I was not! I nearly fainted with horror when I met her again at Yns Witrin,” Gwenhwyfar laughed.
Teleri laughed with her, a strange sound to her own ear, for she had rarely laughed these past months. Suddenly she was talking, with an urgent need to spill her heart. “I can do no right. Everything I touch I break, every word I say is wrong. I am clumsy in action and tongue. Your brothers think me a fool.”
“They do not. Dunaut told me this very evening of his liking for you, said you were unsure of yourself but you made Enniaun happy.”
A glow of cheerfulness warmed Teleri. She said breathlessly, amazed at her sudden ability to talk, “I am one of two and twenty daughters produced from five wives. My father made it known he had no hope of arranging good marriages for more than the favoured few. My mother was British, a Christian. When she died I found solace within the small community of holy sisters, where I began learning the language of herbs and healing remedies. My sisters were not the kindest of girls.”
“You did not want to become one of God’s women?”
Teleri paused, glanced at the heavy gold and sapphire ring on her finger, her marriage band. “Somehow that dedicated life seemed so, so…”
“Dreary?”
Teleri smiled shyly. “I had no choice, you see. I hoped that if my healing proved useful my father would look on me with more favour.” Teleri lifted her hands. “It did not, but it did unite me with Enniaun. He spent a while with us, negotiating agreements of trade and alliance with my father, and fell badly on a hunting trip. I was summoned to see what I could do. I must have been of use, for within the month I found myself married and on my way south to Gwynedd.”
Gwenhwyfar whistled. “As quick as that! He was surely taken with you.”
Teleri shrugged, spoke as she saw the truth. “It was for my healing. He has little love for a fumbling birdbrain.”
“Nonsense. I have seen how he looks at you, heard the fondness in his voice when he speaks of you and his daughter. Which reminds me – I have yet to meet her.”
Impulsively taking the other woman’s hand, Gwenhwyfar ran forward – an awkward shuffle rather than a run because of her bulk. “Come, you shall introduce us now!”
“But she is sleeping.”
“We need not wake her.”
Teleri was running too, laughing, overwhelmed at the pleasure coursing through her. She had dreaded Gwenhwyfar’s homecoming, dreaded facing such an incredible person. Her own sisters were harsh, vain creatures who constantly sneered and jibed at her, sapping her confidence and courage, and Teleri had expected Gwenhwyfar to be the same. Although the night was dark, it seemed to her the sun had burst from behind storm clouds. Gwenhwyfar was not contemptuous, was not aloof. Apart from the baby daughter she cherished, for the first time in her life Teleri had discovered a friend.
Hand in hand they scudded breathlessly across the gravel courtyard. Abruptly, Gwenhwyfar stopped, pleasure fleeing from her face. Her thighs felt wet, sticky, and a gush of water splashed from her, spreading on the ground at her feet. She cried out in alarm, frightened and embarrassed. Teleri darted to her side, uttering reassuring, calm words.
“It is only the waters of the womb that have broken. It is quite normal – it happened to me. Your bairn wants to come.” The younger girl, confident in her knowledge, guided the elder one forward, calling for assistance. Servants appeared. One ran for old Brenna who came bustling from the kitchens.
Within the security of her own chamber, cleaned and reclothed in her night shift, Gwenhwyfar felt a little foolish. There was no pain, no momentous thing happening to her body; just a dull ache in her lower back, and her thighs were cramped, uncomfortable, but no more than the usual feeling that accompanied the start of her monthly flow. Then it came, a tightening of muscles, like cramp or the urgent need to relieve oneself of a constipated stool. It heightened and Gwenhwyfar bit her lip to stop the trembling. As suddenly, it passed.
Teleri grinned. “It gets worse!”
“If you are to be a friend,” Gwenhwyfar retorted, “I would rather you did not tell me such things.”
Mares, bitches, sheep, sows, slaves and servants birthed often enough, she reflected. But all the same, the screams of women who had a difficult time clung obstinately to her mind. “Is it very bad?” she asked.
Teleri gestured for Brenna to answer. She was ageing now, this old freed slave, but kindness was as much a part of her face as wrinkles and creases. Brenna had made life tolerable for Teleri.
“For some ‘tis easy, some hard,” the old woman said, crossing the room to take Gwenhwyfar’s hand in her own. “We are in the hands of God.”
Gwenhwyfar winced. “I would rather put my faith in Our Lady. What does a male god know of birthing?” She caught her breath. “That one was stronger.”
“They will get so. By this time on the morrow we shall know if you carry boy or girl.”
“That is exactly as you told me, Brenna!” Teleri exclaimed. Through the shudder of another contraction Gwenhwyfar said, “I must meet my niece later, it seems.”
When another pain came, Brenna placed her gnarled hand on Gwenhwyfar’s abdomen, counting softly to herself. She peered at the birth canal, probing gently with her fingers, and grunted, satisfied. She snorted as Gwenhwyfar remarked, “Birth is not over-dignified.”
“For that matter,” the woman replied with a laugh, “neither is conceiving!” She gestured for Gwenhwyfar to cover herself. “Twill be some while yet. Babies come in their own time, we can do nothing to hurry them from their bed.”
There was a commotion outside. Arthur burst in, thrusting aside a group of household servants. “Have you no work to attend!” he barked, slamming the door in their startled faces. He strode over to Gwenhwyfar, saying anxiously, “I was told you were taken ill.”
Gwenhwyfar shook her head. “Na, husband, not ill.”
“Fools!” Brenna snapped, stumping from the room. “Can I never trust another to take a message correctly?” She was gone, her voice chiding, grumbling. Teleri made to leave also.
Gwenhwyfar said quickly, “Do not go. Stay with me.”
“If you wish it, I shall be glad to help.” Teleri felt a vast surge of happiness at that. She smoothed the expensive material of her gown, said, “Let me change into clothing more suited.” She smiled shyly at Arthur. “Something plain is more appropriate.”
Arthur waited until she had gone. “My son is coming, then?”
“So it seems.” Gwenhwyfar narrowed her eyes. “You must not tease Teleri.”
“Tease her? Would I do that?”
“Aye, you would.” She was going to say more, let it drop as a fresh wave of contractions rippled through her.
“Arthur,” she whispered, holding him tight, welcoming the strength of his arms, “I am f
rightened.”
“Of what? Birth occurs every day.”
Gwenhwyfar flared at his tactless remark, plunging away from his embrace. “Does that make it easier or safer? You men desire the pleasure, want the sons – but forget the hardship we endure to provide both.”
“The pleasure is yours also,” he answered. The last thing he wanted was an argument, but, by the Bull, Gwenhwyfar was touchy these days. The slightest innocent remark and she was off, galloping in full stride. It was getting so that he was reluctant to remark on anything, important or trivial.
“Is it?” The words were out before she could swallow them.
Arthur sat silent on the bed, staring at the wall ahead, not at her. “I assumed it was,” he said after a while. “I am sorry I do not please you.”
Kneeling on the bed covers, Gwenhwyfar shuffled forward. She touched his shoulder. “I did not mean it to sound like that.”
“How did you mean it, then?” He shrugged her aside, churlish.
“In Less Britain it was…” She fumbled for the right words. “Before, I wanted you and needed you. I enjoyed our lovemaking, it was good. It is just that,” she did not know how to say what was on her mind. “You must not expect too much of me too soon. I cannot comfortably give you my body with a child so large within me.”
Gwenhwyfar masked the pain of a contraction, her hand pressing tight against her abdomen. The pains were growing stronger, more frequent. She moved from the bed and walked across the room. Her back ached terribly; her legs felt unsteady. Reaching for the wall, she turned to him, hands spread in appeal. “I love you. I always have and I always shall. All I ask from you is time to come to terms with what has happened to me. Is that too much for you to give?”
Another strong contraction shuddered through her. She gasped, clutched quickly at the back of a chair.
Arthur sat motionless, watching her. He too was frightened. He loved Gwenhwyfar, but fear dried his throat, numbed his senses, shook his legs. Fear. He knew all too well how many women died giving birth or from complications after. If it should happen to Gwenhwyfar…
He steeled himself, forced himself to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, gasped as she jerked away.
“Leave me alone!” she snarled, almost running from him, across the room.
“I cannot do a damn thing right for you lately, can I?” He stood a moment, head drooping, arms slack at his side. “I love you, Cymraes.”
The contraction passed, but fear of what lay ahead and thoughts of what crowded behind made Gwenhwyfar say, “Love! Men use women for their own gain. Use and abuse. By the Mother, you shall not misuse me!”
Proud men are reluctant to give ground, and Arthur did not know how to show himself with shield down. For too many years of miserable childhood he had hidden behind a defence of bland indifference where women were concerned. The wall was too strong to breach with one blow, although for Gwenhwyfar, it was crumbling, slowly, coming down. But not this night. Fear bound the mortar tight.
He knew he ought to give support and encouragement, desperately wanted to. Why then did he bellow, “I shall use you as my woman and my wife, in my way!”
Was it so surprising she screamed, “Get out! Get away from me!” Her shrill voice could be heard clear across the courtyard. Brenna, supervising the moving of the birthing chair and sundry other items, picked up her skirts and trundled at a hobbling run back to the chamber. Reaching the door, she reeled as Arthur swung blindly past her.
Gwenhwyfar was huddled on the floor, the pains coming sharper, lasting longer. Teleri appeared. With a puzzled glance over her shoulder at Arthur’s retreating form, she asked, “Is all well?”
Cradling Gwenhwyfar, Brenna persuaded her to rise, to walk, as her labour swept on. She nodded at the door. “Shut the Caer out, lass. We will manage better without the world peering in.”
XXXIX
Rumaun found Arthur in the early morning hours. With a skin of wine, he sat curled in one corner of his stallion’s stall, half buried by bracken bedding. Eira snorted as Gwenhwyfar’s brother squeezed past his rump. The horse was settled now and eating contentedly, although it had taken some hours for the shivering to cease, for Eira disliked the sea. Arthur would have preferred to ride to Gwynedd from the south but Gwenhwyfar had wanted to get home. It was quicker by sea.
Rumaun patted the beast, giving reassurance, called to Arthur. “Are you sleeping?”
Arthur grunted, opened one eye, shut it again. “Na.”
Settling himself with a tired sigh, Rumaun pushed the horse’s inquisitive muzzle aside, reached for the wineskin. Tipping it to his lips, enquired, “Is there any left?” He scowled as only a few drops trickled from it, and threw the empty thing down. “We have been searching for you. Did you not hear us calling?”
If he had, Arthur gave no indication. He remained hunched, arms clasped around himself, chin tucked low, eyes firmly closed.
Determined, Rumaun continued. “The babe has come. Mother and son are fine. She had a quick time of it. Like her mother, she births her sons well.” He faltered. What more should he say? As most of the Caer, he was aware of the harsh words exchanged between his sister and her husband. He said, “Women react in peculiar ways when carrying a child, and Gwenhwyfar has always been one for a sudden storm, though they blow themselves out. You must not take her words to heart.” Rumaun trailed off as a tear trickled from beneath Arthur’s closed lashes.
Emotion was rarely suppressed by a warrior. Any man would weep for the death of a lord or a beloved son, wife, brother or friend, and none thought the worse of him for showing honest feelings. Yet this was no death. Where the reason to mourn?
He grasped Arthur’s forearm. “Gwen is well, Arthur, believe me. Tired, Brenna says, but well.”
A great breath of relief juddered from the Pendragon, “Mithras be praised – thank God!”
Rumaun hid a smile at Arthur’s mixture of faiths, but aye, he agreed.
Arthur opened his eyes and stared blankly out of dilated pupils. “I have let her down.” He drew a hand over the extensive stubble on his chin. “Not for the first time either. Damn this pride of mine!” He slammed his fist into the wall, causing Eira to snort and toss his head. “I have to keep proving myself, showing how good I am. All the while knowing I live a lie!” He laughed bitterly. “And Gwenhwyfar is the only woman with courage enough to tell me the truth to my face.”
Rumaun nodded. “Aye, she’s never been one to mince words.”
A pause, then Rumaun said, “Problems look their darkest in the early hours, especially with a head pounding from over-much wine.” He stood up, stretched and brushed stable bedding from his bracae. “Brenna says you can go and see your son and wife.”
Arthur toyed with the edge of his cloak, pulling the hem through his fingers. He did not answer.
Rumaun’s patience was running thin; it had been a long night. “In the name of God, man – put this black mood from you!”
Arthur raised troubled eyes. “Does Gwenhwyfar wish to see me? Can she forgive me?”
“What is there to forgive?” Rumaun headed for the stable door. “A quarrel? We all have those. I can understand your anxiety for her safe delivery – but that is past.” He opened the door, pushing Eira, who had walked behind him, back. “However, I would suggest no woman would forgive a husband for not coming with all haste to take up his son.”
Arthur took his meaning and grinned agreement. “Aye, you say right.” He stood, easing the stiffness from shoulders and back, and shoved Eira’s rump aside. He put his hand on his brother-by-law’s shoulder. “I had best make my peace with her, then.”
He strode from the stables whistling, leaving Rumaun standing confused. God’s truth, he hoped his sister understood the man better than he did!
The Pendragon found his wife drowsing, a wrapped bundle cradled in her arms. Brenna ceased her tidying and smiled as he crept through the door. “You have a fine family. A strong wife and a healthy son.”
He took a step within the doorway, saying nothing, fiddling with the gold buckle of the baldric slung across his chest. The hilt of his sword hanging at his left hip chinked against the metalwork on his leather gear as he shifted weight from one foot to the other.
Carrying a bundle of soiled linen, Brenna patted his arm maternally as she passed by him to leave. “Give her time, lad – and yourself.” Noting the dark shadows beneath bloodshot eyes, added, “There is more to a marriage than the lust of coupling. Two people can only live as one when each is prepared to give and receive trust and understanding. Above that lies respect. Without respect for how the other feels, no marriage is worthwhile.”
She placed her weathered old hand over his. “My eyes have seen many a problem come and go a’tween man and woman. My ears hear of plenty more. Put your trust in Gwenhwyfar and believe in yourself.” Her fingers squeezed his and she left.
“Do you intend to stand there ‘til dawn breaks?” Gwenhwyfar asked, her eyes closed. She opened them and smiled radiantly at him.
“I assumed you were sleeping,” he said in a half-whisper, stepping closer to the bed.
“I was. Brenna’s talking roused me.” She tenderly peeled back the baby’s wrap, revealing a wrinkled pink face and button nose. Arthur sat carefully beside his wife, staring in amazed pride at the tiny thing in her arms.
“I have never seen so new born a babe,” he admitted.
The bundle hiccupped, opened his eyes, squinted at the vague, blurred shape of his Da. He was warm, his belly was full of his mother’s milk and he was content with this world.
Arthur tentatively reached forward. As he touched the small hand, minute fingers curled around one of his own and gripped with astonishing strength. Arthur gasped, impressed. His eyes met Gwenhwyfar’s, a grin broadening on his awed face. “He is perfect.”
“Of course he is,” she laughed. “Is he not made from us?” She held the child out to him and when he hesitated, placed the bundle firmly in his arms. For a moment, Arthur fumbled, afraid to harm or drop this fragile being. Gwenhwyfar guided his hands beneath the baby’s bottom and head, settling a secure but gentle hold.
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