The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  At the start he had fussed and cavorted, refusing to drop his head, bend his spine and flex his hocks beneath him, but he had soon given in to Gwenhwyfar’s insistence on a relaxed swinging stride. His ears flicked at the sound of her encouraging voice as he went through the paces of walk, trot and canter, his head tossing and tail swishing against the irritation of flies.

  As he worked she was pleased to observe that already his body was supple and compliant, his muscles strengthening. Soon it would be time to turn him out in the horse runs, to rest and grow into that last strength of maturity. By next spring he would be ready to wear bit and saddle, take a light rider. As he paced round her, she thought on next summer’s work. To sit astride him, ease him into leg and hand commands, taking him through each stage of learning gradually and with sympathetic patience. By the time he was a four-year-old he would be ready to start the serious work of becoming a warhorse. It took many years to raise and train mounts for use in battle. There were no short cuts, no making do. When a man’s life might depend on his horse’s instant response, there could not be.

  Other young horses were being put through their lessons at practical distances around the training ground. To one side of Hasta, a three-year-old chestnut was misbehaving, rearing against the restraint of a bit, refusing to go forward.

  Gwenhwyfar clucked to her colt, urging him on, talked to him, steadying his extending, excited pace. The chestnut suddenly plunged backwards into Hasta, sending the younger and smaller grey, crashing down. Hooves thrashed for a moment, kicking up dust, then Hasta was on his feet again, his off-hind leg trailing as blood dripped, spotting the dry ground.

  Gwenhwyfar swore, hastily wound in the long rein and soothed the frightened young horse as best she could. Men came running, slowing their pace as they neared. Enniaun pushed his way through the gathering crowd. “I saw what happened,” he said frowning. “This is the third time this week that chestnut has caused trouble. How is your youngster?” This last to Gwenhwyfar, who was bending over the wounded hind leg.

  “Superficial, the blood makes it look worse. He’ll be lame some while though.” She cursed inwardly, said aloud, “He was making fine progress too.”

  Peering at the cut hock, Enniaun agreed with her diagnosis. Straightening up, he studied the chestnut. “We will geld that one – he’ll make a fine riding horse but he has not the sense for a war mount.” He signalled someone to remove the offender and as the crowd drifted away, walked with Gwenhwyfar, leading Hasta, across the training ring to the stables.

  “You have worked hard with this colt.”

  Gwenhwyfar patted the horse’s neck. “He is for Arthur. Eira serves well but is ageing. Besides, when Arthur brings his cavalry together he will need more than one reliable mount.”

  “Will he be ready?”

  For a moment Gwenhwyfar was uncertain whether her brother referred to the horse or Arthur. Either way the answer came the same. “He will be ready when the time comes.”

  They reached the stable yard, dry in this weather, normally squelching in ankle-deep mud. Gwenhwyfar tied the halter rope to an iron ring in the wall and fetched water, calling for a slave to bring linen, taking her time to thoroughly wash and clean the wound. Enniaun stood at the horse’s head, playing with ears and forelock, watching his sister’s experienced hands.

  Arthur would be calling for the rest of his men soon, and those horses that were ready. Rubbing the grey’s forehead, Enniaun was suddenly reminded of his father. Cunedda had promised the Pendragon all the horses he needed, but Enniaun was not the horseman his father had been. And there were the coasts that needed cleansing of Hibernian scum and Council to attend and – oh the list was endless!

  “I cannot supply all Arthur’s needs, Gwen.”

  She finished, patted the animal’s rump and straightened, pushing sweat damp hair from her forehead with her arm. A smear of blood smudged her cheek. “He knows that, does not expect you to.” She led the horse to the nearest stable, fetched hay, watched him settle to eat, resting the weight from the injured leg. “It is not so essential now he has control of the entire West Country and the pick of the horses. All we need is the time to train them, and the men to ride them.”

  “Men will come. As for time, there is never enough of that.” Enniaun was squinting through the glare of sunlight towards the gate arch. Riders were coming in. He did not recognise the horses, nor, as they came nearer, the riders themselves. He began to brush the dust off his tunic and step forward. Gwenhwyfar glanced up as he ceased talking, watched the riders with a frown of curiosity. If she hadn’t known better she would swear that was… Blood of Mithras, it was! Winifred!

  Fortunate that Gwenhwyfar had an excuse to escape, dirty as she was from her own and the horse’s sweat and blood. She exchanged polite greetings and departed as soon as she could for the security of privacy. This stronghold was not so grand as Caer Arfon, smaller and more restricted with not a Roman building in sight, but for all that, the wattle-built round-house was comfortable and private.

  Gwenhwyfar found she was shaking as she entered Enniaun’s Hall as evening descended deliciously cool. A thousand, thousand questions skittered through her mind as she made her way through the throng of men pushing to seat themselves for the day’s meal. Questions that needed answers. Why was Winifred here? And why was she travelling with Bishop Patricius?

  Gwenhwyfar had noticed Winifred’s black clothing, the white veil. So she had become a Holy Sister. That at least explained why she rode with the bishop. But why here to Gwynedd? To stir trouble, for sure – there could be no other reason.

  It came as a surprise, and rather disconcerting, to see Winifred’s polite and demure – almost humble – behaviour. She served the bishop herself with food and drink brought in by the slaves, and served Enniaun, although, Gwenhwyfar realised with amusement the humility did not extend to serving others of the family, notably herself.

  In accordance with custom, Enniaun could not ask their business until his guests were fed and rested. The waiting passed in an agony of impatience; by the time the slaves at last began to clear away the trestle tables and remains of the meal, Gwenhwyfar was almost squirming in her seat.

  The bishop drank his wine slowly, asked for a refill, then excused himself for the latrine. At last he settled himself and the Hall grew quiet.

  “Lord Enniaun,” he began, “I come with the Lady Pendragon” – there came several sharp intakes of breath, that was Gwenhwyfar’s title – “to plead for land to be given to God.”

  Enniaun’s brows had drawn together, but he answered pleasantly, “Much of my land is already given to God. We have several chapels here in Gwynedd.”

  “Chapels, but no holy house. Dyfed has a cloister, as does your brother’s land of Ceredigion. My Lady here” – Patricius indicated Winifred – “has ridden with me these many weeks past to find a suitable place in her father’s Powys.”

  Winifred had been sitting silent, head bowed, hands in her lap. At this she looked up and added, “I needed to create something of God for my father’s lost soul. A holy building would come near to providing penance for him, but two such places would ensure he rested in peace.”

  Several nodded their heads in agreement.

  “And you thought to found somewhere in Gwynedd?” Enniaun asked with curt politeness.

  Winifred was about to reply, but the bishop silenced her.

  “It was my suggestion, Lord Enniaun, for Gwynedd is the only British-held land that has not fully embraced God. An oversight which saddens my heart. My Lady Pendragon has offered to set the matter straight.”

  Gwenhwyfar was saying nothing, staring with growing rage at this pompous fat man and the arrogant scheming woman seated beside him. Enniaun could not agree to this – this absurdity! But to her horror he was nodding his head, offering his hand. No! This must not be! She leapt to her feet, slamming the table with the palm of her hand, the noise bursting like a thunderclap around the confined space of the Hall.

&nb
sp; “I will not allow this! A Saex whore’s bitch founding a holy house in our Gwynedd – and in Vortigern’s name? It was her father who slew Uthr, my husband’s father…”

  Winifred stared coldly at Gwenhwyfar and interrupted with a shrill cry. “Under God’s law a man can have but one wife. I am the Pendragon’s wife, the mother of his son.”

  Gwenhwyfar turned pale. She stood a moment, rocking, then sat heavily, the room spinning. Son? She said son. Winifred had a son by Arthur?

  “Yes, I have a son, Gwenhwyfar.” Winifred’s voice shot like a spear into Gwenhwyfar’s numbed mind. “Born later by a few weeks to yours, but mine was conceived in wedlock to my husband. My husband, Gwenhwyfar, the one I have never accepted the order of divorce from. The one recognised by Holy Church.” She bent low, said into Gwenhwyfar’s ear, “I have made appeal to his grace the Pope, Gwenhwyfar. I am a respected woman of the Church, you a pagan slut. It is my son he will declare legitimate, not yours! My son who will become the next Pendragon, the next king.”

  She would have said more, kicked harder while Gwenhwyfar was down, but Meriaun burst forward, stood with hands planted on the table, a snarl of contempt etched on his face. “I challenge you on this decision, Enniaun. I will have no house, however holy, built by the kin of the man who ordered the brutal murder of my father.”

  At his words the Hall erupted in an uproar of assent. Men and women came to their feet and moved towards the high table, growling and muttering. Enniaun was standing, appealing for calm; some heard and faltered, most ignored him, surging round Winifred, Vortigern’s daughter.

  It was only the bishop, lumbering to his feet and thrusting her behind him, who saved Winifred from the mob. Enniaun leapt forward, physically pushing the angry crowd back. “I call for peace!” he was yelling. “Peace! Calm yourselves.”

  His urgent words got through. The anger subsided, bubbling beneath the surface – better than the raging torrent of a moment before.

  Enniaun patted the air with his spread hands, calming them further. “Be seated, all of you. Let us talk of this thing in a civilised manner.”

  Gwenhwyfar was shaking. Civilised? Winifred, the bitch who had murdered Ceridwen… but then the fight went out of her. There was no proof, only a suspicion. And it was not Winifred who had caused the death of her kin, but her father. Winifred was innocent of the charges. The bishop was talking, she realised, stating the laws of the Holy Church and the Pope in Rome. If Cunedda had been here he would have kicked the man’s fat backside from here to Dyfed, but her Da was not here; Enniaun was Prince of Gwynedd, and Enniaun was a devout follower of Christ.

  XLIII

  For six days Gwenhwyfar endured Winifred’s presence, six days of her gloating and patronising insults. Six long days of clenched fists and fingers that itched to take up a dagger and cut her accursed throat. And then the messenger from Arthur arrived.

  He galloped into the Caer, his mount labouring with lathered neck and frothing mouth. The rider slithered from the saddle, his knees buckling with exhaustion. Someone fetched him water and he drank in great gulps, gasped, “Urgent word for Lord Enniaun!”

  A brief letter, bearing Arthur’s seal but written in a strange hand, struck Gwenhwyfar with dread. If it was addressed to her brother, then surely it carried bad news? She watched, fingers clutching her tunic as he broke the Dragon seal, watched with held breath as he read quickly, muttering the written words.

  Gwenhwyfar thought, Is Arthur hurt? Dead?

  Winifred swished into the Hall, Bishop Patricius puffing like a lapdog at her heels. “A message from the Pendragon?” she demanded. “For me? May I have it?”

  Enniaun ignored her, read through to the end, though there was little to read. He lifted his head, said to the gathering crowd, “Hengest has made his move; he has met with Vortimer near the ford of the river Crae, way beyond his designated territory. They outnumbered our British. Three to one.” He gave the communication to Gwenhwyfar, hovering ill at ease at his shoulder, let her read for herself. Absently, she passed it to Winifred, who scanned the writing quickly “This is not Arthur’s hand,” she said.

  No one bothered answering her. What mattered if it were Arthur’s hand or not? The writing would not alter the facts. Arthur’s hurriedly dictated words, written by a clerk in a precise, neat hand, told that he and his men, stationed to the north of Londinium, had ridden swiftly to give Vortimer aid but arrived too late. The stilted words conveyed little of the destruction they had found, the bare facts only, two short paragraphs that could not hope to match the indecent slaughter.

  Arthur sent word of the killing and asked for Enniaun to send south those men and horses that were ready. He would await them at Caer Leon.

  “I have taken command, Enniaun, and I intend to finish this thing with Hengest. I need to complete my Artoriani.”

  The Pendragon had been too sickened to say more. How could words describe the death of good men? When he arrived, too late, at the Crae ford, bodies were strewn across a churned battlefield, the ravens already gathered, gorging on the corpses and flapping around the broken standard of Vortimer’s Boar.

  Fighting the nausea that heaved within him, Arthur found what remained of the King. Hanging from a cracked and bloodstained banner’s shaft, he found Vortimer’s head, one eye already gone, the other dangling from pecked sinew. As for the rest of him, there was no way of knowing which stripped and mutilated body had once been a king.

  Arthur had sunk to his knees and spewed the revulsion from him. The stench. Men, taken prisoner and grouped together with their hands bound, had been tortured and butchered, their ribs torn open, insides ripped out.

  With Vortimer dead, the sons of Vortigern were no more – aside from one Saex-born cur, the boy, Vitolinus.

  Standing staring bleakly at the grotesque remains of men he had known, Arthur realised that leadership was his for the taking. Why then did he weep? For this waste of men? For the sorrowing wives and fatherless children? It should not have happened. Not like this.

  At the edge of the stench and vileness, hearing his men retching and coughing as they gathered the dead, Arthur had dictated his matter-of-fact letter. He spoke the words dull and flat, a toneless, distanced account of fact.

  Dismissed, the clerk hurried away to seek a messenger, glad to escape. Arthur stayed watching as his men began to bury the mutilated corpses.

  August 456

  XLIV

  Meriaun, Typiaunan’s son, was to take the horses to Arthur. In no uncertain terms he told Enniaun what he thought of his deal to parcel out Gwynedd land to the greed of the Church and the lying daughter of a murdering bastard. Told his dead father’s brother he would join with the Pendragon and return no more to Gwynedd. Enniaun let him go, knowing a man’s passionate temper often cooled given time.

  What Enniaun did not expect, nor Winifred, was that Gwenhwyfar took herself and her son with him. They arranged it in secret between them, she and Meriaun. Winifred might have the power of the Church behind her plea for her son, but Gwenhwyfar was now Arthur’s wife, and no God-kneeling Saex was going to over-shadow Llacheu! A son may be named heir, may be first-born, second-born, bastard born, if the army did not want him as king when the time came to claim the title then king he would not be. The sure way to get an army to shout loud for their chosen man was for them to know that man. Oh aye, Gwenhwyfar would go to Arthur, and take her son with her. Winifred could claim what she liked, but Llacheu would grow and learn and live with Arthur’s men. It was him they would choose when the time came for another Pendragon. Llacheu, not this rat-spawned Cerdic.

  They left Caer Arfon, heading south along the coast where safety lay in their own land and Ceredig’s adjoining holding. Two women, a young boy, two hundred men and three times as many horses. There came no trouble those first few days, aside from a kicking match between two stallions and another with a bruised sole. The horses settled well after the initial excitement, walking steady, with heads down, ears lopping and tails swishing.<
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  The weather held fine. Warm days with a pleasant breeze. From Ceredig’s borders they had turned south-east, making for the welcome of Builth, but those friendly lands were behind them now, with the hostile ranges of plunging valleys and lonely hills rising ahead. The desolate land of the wolf.

  At least these open hills gave scant cover for raiders. Trees and thickets hid men only too well – and they knew there were men following them. The Watchers, they called them, for want of a better description. Watchers keeping pace, never showing themselves, two, happen three men.

  Little clues and gut feelings told Gwenhwyfar and the men they were keeping pace a steady mile or so behind. That prickling sensation on the back of the neck, the knowing that people were watching you. That if you turned round quick, someone would be there – but when you did, there was nothing save a swaying branch or waving grass and a blurred shadow.

  Once at night they heard the whinny of a horse, hastily muffled. Come dawn, Gwenhwyfar sent a scout to ride in a sweeping half-circle behind them. He found the remains of a fire, with flattened grass where men had lain, and horse droppings. A second dawn, a signalling whistle carried clearly.

  Shadows unobserved, like midnight wraiths, always following. Their presence unsettling, unnerving. Sometimes dropping further back, never coming nearer, always there. Watching.

  When the heavy woodland at last fell behind, Gwenhwyfar and the men breathed relief for this open country. Nowhere now for their unwanted companions to hide. Let them show themselves or be gone.

  Around the night-time fires talk of who they might be had taken many meandering turns. The favoured theory was that they were men of Builth, ensuring the travellers came and went in peace. The new-claimed petty kingdom was friendly with Gwynedd, but friendship was too uncertain to trust wholehearted. Horses such as these would be a fine prize indeed for an ambitious young man who had elevated himself to the tribal title of king. But they had passed into the open hills, out beyond Builth’s borders, and no attack had come. The tingling along the spine and hair rising along the collar faded under the expanse of blue sky rolling along the hilltops. Men relaxed. The Watchers, whoever they were, seemed to have gone.