The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Breathing hard, Arthur rolled the dead man over, and realised he would have difficulty removing his weapon, so deeply was it embedded. He saw a glint of gold from a small jewelled dagger in the Saex’s belt. As his fingers curled round the lightweight hilt, he felt the movement of air behind him. Arthur whirled, striking with the dagger, plunging it into the throat of a Saxon whose axe was plunging downwards.

  Sweat trickled down Arthur’s back. He swallowed, the clutch of death over-close for comfort. He wiped the blade on his sleeve, started as he recognised the decorative jewelling. He knew this thing, this light, slim-bladed weapon! A woman’s dagger, but obviously prized for its quality and beauty. How in the name of Mithras had that ox got hold of Gwenhwyfar’s treasured dagger? The riddle must wait. Arthur thrust the weapon into his own belt and bent to retrieve the Saxon sword.

  As his hand clasped the hilt, he felt a surge of pleasure course through his body, a tingle of excitement, a sparkle of wonder. This sword was magnificent! Eyes alight, he struck at a Saxon to his left who had a British soldier down, at his mercy. The blade sliced clean through flesh and sinew, severing the warrior’s head with a single blow. The reprieved victim scrambled to his feet, gabbling his thanks. Arthur turned to grapple with another of Hengest’s sagging army, the sword in his hand seeming to possess a life of its own as it hewed and slashed and killed. A sword for a king. And Arthur would be king!

  He saw Eira, wild eyed, close to panic without the reassurance of his rider but, for all that, standing still. Arthur grabbed the reins, ran his hand soothingly down the stallion’s neck and mounted quickly. With the familiar guidance from voice and legs, the horse calmed, plunging forward at the given signal towards Hengest’s swaying White Horse banner.

  Hengest was fighting for his life. He recognised defeat, knew it was only a matter of moments before his army threw down their weapons and fled. He looked anxiously around for Aethal, his friend and honoured warrior. Aethal was special, a brave man, husband to one of his daughters. For a while, he had commanded the fool king Vortigern’s personal guard of Saex warriors, ostensibly serving alongside the nephew, Melwas, but in truth there to carry word between Hengest and his eldest daughter, Rowena.

  Aethal had become separated and Hengest became alarmed. If it were known that the mighty warrior, Aethal, had fallen, his men would never hold!

  A rider was bearing down on them, cleaving his way through the close hand-to-hand fighting. The man wore a scaled hauberk, a crimson cloak swirling from his shoulders. Hengest could not discern the face beneath the protection of the helmet, but the poise, audacity and charisma were as telling as any recognisable features.

  When Hengest saw the sword Arthur wielded, his hopes died. Aethal’s sword. The sword forged by the god Weyland near the crystal waters of Freya and endowed, by that same Lady, with powers of strength and endurance. No man who held that sword could be slain, it was said, save by the cunning and strength of a dragon.

  Hengest groaned, let his own sword fall slack in his hand. So, the legend was true! Aethal had boasted he could best any fire-tongued beast, dared such a monster to come within range of his blade. They had all laughed, listening to his talk while gathered around Hengest’s hearth, proud of Aethal and his strength, amused he had fooled Vortigern and Melwas into believing him their servant. Yet none of them had realised the hidden danger and mocking truth. It was no beast that rose superior, but a man. The Pendragon.

  Hengest’s Jutes had seen Arthur, recognised that flashing sword. Abandoning their weapons, demoralised, faced with the reality of defeat, they began to flee. As they ran, the cavalry surged after them, cutting them down. The tide had swept out, turning the low land between island and mainland into treacherous mudflats divided by a narrow navigable channel. A few men, weighing the risk of stinking mud or death by British sword, ran out into it, to find their feet stuck, their legs dragged down into its sucking depths. The protruding sand bars were hastening the silting up of the channel, beginning to trap the land, turning Tanatus from island to promontory. A stretch of coast that would, for all time, remember the coming and defeat of Hengest.

  L

  The roar from the elated men echoed over the flat lands of the coast. The great cry was caught by the sea wind and tossed up to the scudding clouds and screaming gulls. As Arthur walked forward, dressed in parade armour with his beautiful wife at his side, the men of Britain let their jubilation explode. Victory was theirs, and they had the right to shout their loudest acclaim.

  At Rutupiae, all that remained of the splendid monument of triumph dedicated to the Emperor and god Claudius was its battered square base. Guarded well and displayed for all to see, Hengest stood atop its rough surface chained like a common slave. Left weary and thirsty, itching from the dust and sweat of battle, he watched Arthur approach, waited for the order of death that was surely to come. He did not mind the dying, only the manner of its making. It was nothing less than he expected, the losers were to suffer. It could as easily have been the other way around.

  One thing occurred to him as he stood, head held proud, giving no sign of fear. It could have been Winifred walking there with the Pendragon. He ought to have tried the harder to secure her place as future Queen, but then he had made a grave error the day he misjudged this son of Uthr. Hengest gave a grunt of self-mocking laughter. Had he not been warned to keep a wary eye beneath Arthur’s masking cloak of drunken whoring? What was it he had once said of the Pendragon? A boy playing a man’s game. The mistake of all men, they forgot to watch the sons growing, realising too late that the young buck had become the antlered stag.

  Arthur reached the makeshift dais, leapt up and, taking her hand, helped his wife climb after him. For a moment Gwenhwyfar stared at Hengest, chained there in the centre of the massive block of white stone. She started as his unflinching eyes met with hers. That haughty gaze, how like Winifred’s, she thought. The hard eyes, showing nothing beyond the ceaseless plotting and calculation of gain. He was beaten but not deterred, even seemed slightly amused.

  Gwenhwyfar clung tight to her husband’s arm and directed her attention to the clamouring men. Hengest had shown plainly the thought behind those eyes. I do not fear, for Cerdic, boy of my blood, is yet to come!

  Arthur raised his hand for silence, the roar of acclaim fading slowly, reluctantly. Men crowded close, shoulder to shoulder, eager faces lifted to hear the words of the Pendragon. Many had waited a long time for this day’s kingmaking.

  When he could be heard, Arthur took a step forward, cast his wide smile over the sea of faces.

  “You have done well, my brothers,” he called. “Very well! Let none say the men of Arthur lack for courage and strength. From this day, our enemies shall fear our name and tremble before our war cry.” He let them shout and cheer a while before drawing the sword from his side, lifting it so all might see its fine wonder. “I took this sword from a Saex I killed. I cannot form my tongue around the Saex name it bears, but in our British speech, its calling would be ‘Caliburn’.” He let the men have a good, long, admiring look at its perfection. They were listening to him intently, hanging on his every word, barely a sound issuing from their lips.

  “It is said by the Saex this sword has qualities of none other and it has a story behind its being. One day a man, a young warrior, was walking beside a lake. He came across a boat and paddled to the centre of that lake. There he waited until the sun and the moon had chased each other twice across the sky. And then, as dawn’s finger touched the glass surface of the sleeping lake, the waters parted and a Lady arose from beneath. A beautiful woman, a goddess. She held a sword – a sword that could only have been forged on the anvil of a god. She charged this mortal to take the weapon into the world of men and to wield it until such time as the man it was made for came to take it by trial of strength. A man who was destined to be the greatest of all kings. ‘That man,’ this goddess said, ‘shall be a king above all kings; a man supreme, who will make the dark light, and turn the blood of
war into the calm waters of peace.’“

  Arthur laid the blade across his open palms, studied its superb, delicate workmanship, felt the fineness of its being against his skin. He had won his sword, now had to win the men, his army, had to use his wits and get them to kneel without question. There would be arguments about the way he intended to do things, bitter disagreement from the Church and men such as his uncle Emrys, who fervently believed that Rome would soon return. He must ensure the support of this army, these ordinary men who would fight unquestioning for what he, the supreme king, decided. With them behind him, the opposition could shout to the four winds, for all the good it would do them.

  “That was a story from long past and it was a tale woven by Saxons, yet here I stand before you with this sword in my hand. I fought for it and by greater strength took it for my own. Am I not, then, your King?”

  They answered with spears hoisted, swords crashing against shields, and voices proclaiming for Arthur. “Pendragon! Pendragon! Pendragon!”

  Arthur sheathed the sword, held both his hands high, quietening them.

  “Na!” he countered. “The cry shall not be for me. My cavalry are the Artoriani, but the rest of you, the foot, the militia guard and the medics; all you farriers, scouts and harness makers, shield bearers and grooms. You farmers with your scythes, and tradesmen with club or staff. The hunters with your spears. Professional soldiers or laymen – all of you are from this day of victory the defenders of our country. My army. You need, and shall have, some special name, some special title to wield in battle, a cry that reminds us and our enemies we fight together for our families, for our women and children, those born and those yet to come!”

  He paused while a new burst of cheering rang out, then went on, shouting to be heard. “We need something unique, something that is not just for me, your king, but for us all!”

  He took Gwenhwyfar’s hand, brought her forward, the evening sunlight flashing against the precious stones of the royal torque at her throat and the circlet of gold crowning her braided hair. Gold twining with copper. “Many of you know the term of endearment by which I call my woman. Cymraes. My Lady Gwenhwyfar can trace her ancestry back to beyond the coming of Rome, to the deeper tribal blood of Britain.” He took breath. Men were listening, nodding. This they knew.

  “I speak to you in Latin, the tongue of the Empire because our fathers and fathers’ fathers did so. Today, despite our Roman laws and our Roman speech, we think of ourselves not as Roman but as British. Bound together, we are the Cymry, fellow native-born countrymen. This, then, shall be our call, my countrymen. We shall cry, ‘Cymry’!”

  They took up the challenge eagerly, and swept it straight into their hearts, as he had known they would.

  “Cymry!” They shouted it over and over until it drowned the sound of the incoming tide and the shrill cries of the gulls. “Cymry!”

  The war cry of Arthur Pendragon. The King.

  Author’s Note

  There is very little evidence for what really happened in the hundred years or so between the going of the Romans and the dominance of Britain by the Anglo-Saxons, the English. There is a period of myth and romance, a Dark Age where knowledge has been forgotten and replaced by stories. As time has passed, these tales have become more and more distorted; events and characters exaggerated or invented. We have a few, challengeable facts and even fewer names, the best-known being Arthur and his wife Guinevere or, as I call her, Gwenhwyfar.

  Whether Arthur was real or a character of fiction is not certain. We do know fifth century Britain was in turmoil, and that someone had the strength to apply organisation to the chaos. If it was not ‘Arthur’, there is no other legendary character to fit the gap.

  My Pendragon’s Banner trilogy is my personal view of those Dark Ages. I am not an historian; I speak no Welsh or Latin. I am not expressing fact, merely what might have been. The dates are my own interpretation, gleaned from a hotch-potch of muddled theories and chronologies. They may not tally with those proposed by the professional historian, but as virtually no date of this period can be established as absolute fact, I feel I can justify my theories.

  Some few situations and people in my story are indeed fact. Vortigern lived, although this now commonly used name may then have been a title meaning something like ‘overlord’. Hengest probably existed, as did Cerdic. Emrys, who fleetingly appears in Book One, is better known by his Roman name, Ambrosius Aurelianus. He did exist. Exactly when and where, is open to question, but possibly in the south. Usually he is placed before Arthur, but to my mind this is not logical, and so in this trilogy he comes after. You will discover how and why in Book Two, Pendragon’s Banner, and in particular in Book Three, Shadow of the King. Cunedda and his sons are acclaimed as the founders of the Gwynedd dynasty, leading down to Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, who died fighting against Edward I of England, who then plundered Wales for his own. It is told Cunedda migrated into Gwynedd from the territory of the Votadini, which ran from modern Edinburgh down into Northumbria. Why and how and when we do not know, except, if it is true, it must have been after Rome had abandoned Britain to look to her own defence and before the firm hold of settled Anglo-Saxons. Some time, therefore, in the early fifth century.

  I invented Gwenhwyfar as Cunedda’s daughter because I wanted to include him in my story. Imagine my delight when, on searching through some early genealogies (which admittedly are extremely unreliable), I discovered he did have a daughter called Gwen! In all probability she was not Gwenhwyfar, wife to Arthur – but the wonderful thing about this period of history for a writer of fiction is that ‘probably’ cannot be proven as ‘unlikely’! Any writer on these unknown Dark Ages has a free rein of imagination – although I have tried my best to keep that rein curbed within the margin of at least the plausible. For any errors, I apologise, or claim poetic licence!

  As for Arthur, no one knows if he was real. A few scattered poems and early Welsh bardic tales were adopted by the twelfth century Normans who were responsible for the stories we know so well today. The knights, chivalrous deeds and the Round Table belong to this later period, as did the fictitious invention of Lancelot, his adultery with Gwenhwyfar, and Merlin the wizard. You will not find them in my tale.

  Early references to Arthur do not portray him as a chivalric, benevolent king – the opposite in fact. A down-to-earth, ruthless war leader. This, then, is my Arthur. There are no court niceties in The Kingmaking. Legend tells of Gwenhwyfar’s abduction and rape by Melwas, and of the pagan women at Glastonbury. I am not the first person to suggest Arthur may have married a daughter of Vortigern and that Cerdic may have been his son.

  The tale of Gwynllyw and Gwladys’s flight from her father is also an old one, complete with Arthur playing dice and lusting after her, and Cei’s outraged reprimand.

  For places and personal names I have often had to invent my own, or used a mixture of Latin, Welsh and English. The language my characters use would also have been one of the three tongues. On the whole, I assume Arthur and Gwenhwyfar would be talking in British (Welsh). I have, through necessity, taken one or two liberties with my use of Welsh, for which I apologise. When Arthur first gives Gwenhwyfar her ‘nickname’ he would probably have said something like ‘fy nghymraes fach i’ – my little Welsh woman – which is unfortunately too ponderous for those of us who struggle with Welsh pronunciation. I have therefore settled for the more familiar ‘Cymraes’.

  Some terms are blatantly out of context with the period but I have used them because they are more familiar in meaning to our modern times.

  For instance, ‘moustache’ is not a contemporary word – but to say ‘trail of hair on the upper lip’ is clumsy and slightly absurd. Another is ‘witch’. Correctly, perhaps, I should have used ‘hag’, but this conjures up a picture of a bent old crone, which is not the description I wanted. It is uncertain how soon after the going of Rome the term ‘king’ became used. Emerging leaders at this time were perhaps warlords, overlords or supreme com
manders, but I have used ‘king’ because it conveys a consistent meaning in our modern tongue. The terms and traditions surrounding dowries and a man’s heir may also, technically, be slightly out of place, but again I stress this is primarily a novel, not a factual record.

  The skirmish along the Devil’s Dyke in Cambridgeshire is embroidered by my own fancy, for it is not certain when this, and similar earthworks cutting at right angles across the ancient Icknield Way, were first constructed. Some archaeologists and historians place them any time from the Roman period to as late as the seventh century. I feel the Devil’s Dyke is neither Saxon nor Roman but an earlier, Celtic boundary. It seems logical that it formed a man-built ‘gateway’ between the natural defences of the Ouse and the Stour, dense woodland and impassable marsh. The only unprotected area into the ancient kingdom of the Iceni was the 7.5 miles intersected by the ridge along which ran the Way. Iceni artefacts have been found to the north of the Dyke, but few to the south. Therefore I believe the Devil’s Dyke would already have been around 400 years old at the time when, in my tale, Arthur was grumbling about Vortigern’s incompetence.

  The story of Arthur taking his sword from the stone and thus becoming king is a familiar one. It has been suggested however, that during Medieval times there was a translation error of ‘from a stone’ (ex saxo) with ‘from a Saxon’ (ex saxone). Clerks were occasionally in the habit of dropping the ‘n’ and putting a stroke above the next letter (ex saxoe) which could account for the discrepancy. Alternatively, the stone could be a reference to the sacred stones of the tribal British. Excalibur, the well known sword of legend given to Arthur by the Lady of the Lake is often confused with the one from the stone. In my story, or perhaps in this instance, Arthur’s, the two have been combined.

  There were indeed battles at Agealesthrep (Aylesford, Kent) and Crecganford (Crayford, Kent), though the dates are not precise. The Cantii territory does seem to have been settled at an early date. Cantii had become Kent; the name Canterbury still echoes its British inheritance.