The Kingmaking Read online

  the Kingmaking

  Helen Hollick

  BOOK ONE OF THE PENDRAGON'S BANNER TRILOGY

  SilverWood Books

  Published in paperback and eBook 2011 by SilverWood Books

  www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk

  Text copyright © Helen Hollick 2011

  Genealogy © Avalon Graphics 2011

  eBook by www.bristolebooks.co.uk

  The right of Helen Hollick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-906236-64-9

  ePub eBook ISBN 978-1-906236-94-6

  For Sharon Penman

  With my gratitude

  Part One

  The Spinning

  May 450

  I

  He was ten and five years of age and, for the first time in his life, experiencing the exhilaration of the open sea and, for this short while, the novelty of leisure. The boy, with a grin fixed as wide as a new moon, folded his arms on the rail and leaned forward to watch the churn of foam boiling about the ship’s bows. Salt spray spattered his face, tingling against skin that bore the faintest trace of manhood about the upper lip and chin. The sharp, sea-tang smell burst up his nostrils like a cast spear to his brain and hammered behind his eye-sockets. He tossed his head back, bracing his body with his hands against the leap and plunge of the deck and laughed with the pure energy of unequalled pleasure.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the Dragon Banner flying proud from the masthead. He twisted his body to see it better: a snake-like tubular shape, curling and writhing with a life of its own. Streamers shrieked with the passing of the wind, and the head flashed gold in a display of fire sparked by the caught rays of the sun. Ah, but it was good to be out in the open. Out on the sea, heading for Britain with Uthr Pendragon’s war host.

  A sister ship, the same as this great war-beast, save that she flew no dragon, plunged into the cleft of a tossing wave, thrust herself forward, gallantly keeping pace. The boy waved to the men on board, grinning the wider to receive a brief flung acknowledgement.

  Then he saw Morgause watching him, standing as straight and stiff as the single mast.

  A fine-bred lady, Morgause, with the figure of a goddess and the vanity of an empress. She held her cloak tight around her shoulders, her slender fingers clasping a rose-coloured silk veil that held her sun-gold hair in place against the ripping wind.

  If the ship was the perfection of sail then she, to look upon, was surely the perfection of woman. ‘Venus’, Uthr called her in the intimacy of their lovers’ bed. Perfection to the eye, often marred when examined close, by a flaw within; hers the arrogance and cruelty that came with high ambition.

  The boy’s pleasure faded as fast as a tossed stone sinks below the surface of a calm pond. Why did the Lord Uthr need to bring her? Why her and not his wife? Although she could be as bad, with her constant praying to God and perpetual muttered litanies. An invading army was no place for a woman, not even for the mistress of the man who considered himself to be Britain’s rightful king.

  Her eyes, cold, calculating, ice blue eyes, bore into him; evil eyes that never smiled except at the indulgence of her own twisted pleasures. His right hand was behind his back; he made the protective sign against evil, knew she was aware he made that sign. Strange. From tales, he had always assumed witches to be ugly, dark creatures, not having the beautiful fair skin of Morgause.

  He tried again to feel the joy of the ship, but the excitement had faded, lost under this shadow of her foreboding. Instead, the lad ducked below deck and made his way to where Uthr’s soldiers squatted playing dice or board and counter games. He was safe from her down here, she would not come where the men lodged, although it was so much better to be out there in the air and sunlight…

  Lord Uthr, called the Pendragon, approached Morgause from behind and wrapped his great oak-branch arms around her slender waist. She stiffened and pulled away from him, not caring at this moment for intimacy.

  “You ought not let the boy do as he pleases, Uthr,” she said. “Give him leave to take holiday and he will be fit for nought when it comes to returning to duties.”

  Uthr laughed, a deep bear-growl rumble. “He’s just a lad. Leave him be.”

  Morgause made no answer. She had no intention of letting the boy run wild, unchecked and undisciplined. Why Uthr had brought him she had no idea. He was nurtured as foster son by Uthr’s brother – but a war host was no place for a boy who, in truth, was no more than the bastard brat of a long-dead servant girl. Uthr found the boy to his liking, but to her mind he was a lazy, rough-edged, insolent whelp who needed regular beating to remind him of his place. Common gossip favoured the foster father, Ectha, as the brat’s unknown sire – although there had been some who had whispered of it being Uthr himself. He had the more likely reputation, would once have rutted with any whore available. A smile slithered across Morgause’s lips, so carefully painted with vegetable dye. Not now. Now he lay only with her, Morgause, youngest sister to his God-possessed wife.

  “They say,” Uthr said, nibbling at her ear, his arms tightening as she attempted to brush him aside, “I have brought you with the intention of finding you a suitable husband.” He ignored her flailing hand. “Shall I do that, my pretty one? When I have lopped the tyrant Vortigern’s head from his noble shoulders and placed myself as King of all Britain, shall I wed you to some noble lord?” He swivelled her around, aimed a large wet kiss at her lips, smudging the red colouring. “Or shall I set aside my wife, Ygrainne, and wed you myself? Queen Morgause. It has a nice ring!”

  She would have felt pleased had she known him to be serious. But Uthr was always jesting, always making fun of her aspirations. Curt, she answered, “My Lord will do with me as he may please.”

  “Ha!” Uthr laughed again. “At this moment it pleases me to stand here on this swaying deck and kiss you.” He glanced around. “It would please me even more had I a tankard of wine in my free hand. Where’s the boy got to?”

  Morgause said nothing, stared at the wake foaming behind the speeding ship. Happen Providence would supply a discreet chance to tip the brat overboard before they reached Britain?

  Instead, Fortuna followed the boy. Showing herself in the guise of squalling rain and a blustering westerly wind, she came stamping over the horizon with the dawn. Uthr’s soldiers, land men not seafarers, huddled below deck groaning as their stomachs heaved up to their throats. The Less Britain sailors scurried regardless, taking a reef into the square sail and hauling close to the wind. Thunder was brewing, would be upon them before mid-morning. For the boy, the storm was thrilling. To his delight, he found himself and Uthr the only passengers braving the deck.

  Weather-seasoned sailors grinned at him as they scuttled about, great waves of spray soaking their clothes to the skin, the wind beating in their faces and snarling through the Dragon Banner overhead. Uthr ruffled the lad’s hair, sharing his wild exhilaration.

  “Is a battle like this?” the boy asked, eyes wide as a silver salver, salt-encrusted hands gripping the ropes along the rails. “Is it as exciting?”

  Uthr laughed, making a hasty grab at his cloak that swirled in a gust of mauling wind. “Aye, lad. Danger breeds a sharpness that courses through your blood as hot as a man’s lust for a beautiful woman.” He watched fascinated as lightning lit the blue-black sky from horizon to horizon. “Always,” he shouted through the following roar of thunder, “be aware. Keep your head,
your sense. When you throw a spear, throw your soul with it. Let your sword be one with your arm.” He made accompanying gestures, casting an imaginary spear, cleaving the air with a sword. “Keep tight control, boy. You will feel fear; fear pumps your blood the faster, but let not the fright touch your face. Keep it close, tucked well behind the shield of calm expression.” He put his arm around the lad’s shoulders and declared with a gusted laugh, “The same applies to handling women.” He grinned. “The secret there, lad, is to let them think they hold control!”

  Involuntarily, the boy glanced astern at the timbered cabin that was, for this voyage, Uthr and Morgause’s. Uthr must have seen, for he too looked.

  “You are right to fear that one, for she’s a woman who seeks what dangles beyond her reach. I have her tamed, but Morgause can scratch as dangerous as a cornered wild cat.”

  The boy ducked his head, chewed his lip. Aye, did he not know it!

  Thunder bellowed overhead. Uthr made to stride away but paused, waving his hand in the direction of the shuttered cabin. “She’s no sea-maiden, my prized whore. You will see no more of her these next days, not until we make harbour.” He winked and strode for’ard to speak with the captain.

  And he was right. Not even when the first haze of the Gwynedd coastline came into view, nor as the shore grew larger, with detail coming clear, did Morgause show herself.

  The boy stood on deck, spellbound as the great ship, with her sister following, swung landward. Gwynedd, where the Lion Lord Cunedda ruled. Where valleys nestled green and lush, and mountains heaved upwards to caress the sky. He had heard much of Gwynedd, and found this first view of peaks plunging like an eagle’s swoop towards a plain that, by contrast, lay as flat as the sea, not disappointing.

  The two ships swept into the straits between the mainland and the Isle of Môn. A lively wind, the tail end of the storm, danced across the sea chasing a galloping herd of white-crested waves that pranced to meet the nearing shore.

  A movement there! Two dark specks against the spring vegetation of green, yellow, white and pink. The boy squinted, attempting to make out clearer shapes. Two riders, not adult, for they lacked height and build, were urging their horses to a fast pace. A chestnut and a smaller, black-coated hill pony.

  The oars lifted then dipped to kiss the white foam. The sail dropped and the ship, tossing her prow like a mare held over-long curbed and kicking high her heels, leapt for the harbour sheltering beneath the imposing fortress that was Caer Arfon.

  II

  Heels drumming, the two children urged their ponies into a gallop, the flat land along this seaward stretch allowing the pace faster. The boy, better mounted, was forging ahead on his chestnut gelding, enjoying the reckless speed.

  “Etern, wait!” Gwenhwyfar shouted, pleading. She saw her brother disappear into a gully but her words were snatched by the teasing wind; she doubted he had heard. Relief brought a smile when she found him waiting impatiently, his excited horse tossing flecks of foam, hooves fidgeting. The boy’s attention was darting from her approach to the haze of sea and the sprawl of buildings beside the estuary. He wanted to get back.

  At ten and four, Etern was the elder by two summers. He had his sister’s copper-gold hair and expressive green eyes, but was taller by a full head and shoulders. He frowned at her and impatiently shouted; “Kick him on, make him earn his keep.”

  “He’s going as fast as he can!” Gwenhwyfar hurled a retort sharp with ruffled anger. Reaching her brother she hauled at the iron-tough mouth of her sweating pony, noticed, with a twinge of envy, how the handsome Aquila was barely damp. One dark stain on his neck, a slight quiver to his deep chest, nothing more.

  “That pony’s too fat for his own good,” Etern observed with critical disapproval. “About time Da gave you something decent to ride.” Instantly, he regretted the barbed sarcasm. He smiled an apology, smoothing his sister’s puckering temper with, “Still, I suppose he does well for his age, but you are growing out of him. Look, your feet are almost to the ground!” He laughed suddenly, impatience swinging to humour.

  Gwenhwyfar laughed with him, her mouth wide, head back, seeing with her brother the absurdity of her lengthening body astride this short-legged, barrel-bellied pony. Fondly, she patted his neck her palm slapping on the wetness that was beginning to steam. “He has served me well enough.”

  “He cannot carry you forever though – would he not make a pony for brother Osmail’s son now? The lad will soon see his third summer; time he was riding.

  Gwenhwyfar snorted disdain; brother Osmail was not a favourite of hers, and even less so his fastidiously intolerant wife. “If Branwen has her way he will be fit for nought save women’s work or the priesthood.” Pulling on the reins and giving a thumping kick with her heel, she brought her stubborn pony away from the grass he was eagerly snatching at and persuaded him to walk on.

  Etern grimaced, echoing his sister’s distaste for the boy’s prospects, and nudged Aquila to follow.

  For some yards they rode in silence, the horses picking their way through the dull tangle of last season’s heather. The wind brought a sharp tang of the sea to mingle with the smell of warm earth and the heady scent of mayflowers adorning the hawthorns. Overhead, a flight of gulls, one with a fish flapping from his beak, wheeled shrieking and squabbling. Etern brought Aquila up to his sister’s side and rode companionably with her.

  “What possessed our brother to wed a woman such as Branwen?” he said. It was a question Gwenhwyfar often asked, particularly after some fresh outburst of disagreement with the woman. “Were there not milder-tempered maids to choose from?”

  Aquila was beginning to dance, becoming bored with the sedate pace. He blew through his nostrils and tossed his head, his mane brushing Etern’s face. The boy shortened the reins, intending to curb the impatience, managing only to increase the bend to the horse’s neck and the jog in his step. “Osmail seems happy to have a son born, another on the way and a plump woman to keep him warm at night, but even so…”

  The wind lifted the loose hair always escaping from Gwenhwyfar’s braids. She gave Etern a look that could have scorched the may blossom brown. “There are enough plump women around Caer Arfon to keep an entire legion warm. No need to wed such a dragon!”

  Aquila leapt sideways at some imagined fright. When Etern had enticed him back on to the sheep-track they were following Gwenhwyfar added, with a wicked grin, “And Branwen is not plump, she’s as fat as Da’s best breeding sow.” She pushed her pony into an ambling trot. “Come, brother, Splinter has his wind; those two ships will have docked by now.”

  Traders’ ships were becoming a rarity along this coast. The chequered sails of the Saex sea wolves, aye, or the earth red of the pirates from Hibernia; both a menace to trader or traveller. But sleek, powerful craft like those two fighting the heavy swell of the straits and a bruising westerly wind were uncommon enough to set brother and sister hastening home. Coming down from the hills, the eager canter had increased to a furious gallop, Etern pointing ahead, shouting excitedly, “It’s the Pendragon, Gwen! I can see the Dragon Banner!”

  “Uthr Pendragon,” he whooped, his voice crying back into the mountains and hurling towards the afternoon sky.

  Gwenhwyfar held her counsel, but as they approached the incline leading up to the stronghold’s outer defences she ventured an opinion. “It may be his banner, but need he be aboard?”

  Her brother blew a crude noise through his lips. “Of course he’s aboard. The Dragon flies only above its lord.” He swivelled to face her, his expression animated. “Think on it! Uthr Pendragon at Caer Arfon!”

  A tale told often around the hearth fires: of the time when, soon, Uthr the Pendragon, the exiled High Lord of all Britain, would raise his war host and come to claim his rightful place as supreme king. A tale of hope fashioned by old harpers and young soldiers. Tales were tales, along with the legends of past gods and heroes; Gwenhwyfar had long since learnt such tales were not always to be believed.

/>   They trotted through the open gateway between ditch and palisade fencing and entered the bustle of the settlement that crowded against the towering turf walls of the stronghold, Cunedda’s fortress of Caer Arfon. Within a few strides, Gwenhwyfar believed her brother right.

  A festive mood bubbled, tripping over dwelling-place threshold and market-sellers’ stalls, spilling like heady wine into alley and street. People were jostling, laughing and dancing; making merry as they will when spirits are lifted to the stars, with the promise of hope against the oppression of a tyrant’s rule. For even here, under the protection of their beloved Lion Lord, the despised king, Vortigern, cast his greedy shadow.

  The ponies clattered through the cobbled archway into the sanctuary of the stronghold proper, their ears pricking as they neared the stables and the promise of corn. Here, within the imposing walls, turreted and top-fenced, swelled the normal bustle of a powerful lord’s domain. Kennels for hunting dogs, barns for gathered grain, roundhouse dwelling places for servants and slaves; a latrine and bathhouse. Smoking cooking pits near the kitchen place; the well, and the impressive structure that was Cunedda’s Hall, with, beyond, the family apartments, stone-built, lime-washed and roofed with slate.

  With the horses settled, brother and sister ran, slowing only to slip past the open kitchen door from where a shrill voice could be heard scolding some unfortunate.

  “Branwen!” Gwenhwyfar mouthed, exchanging a wary glance with her brother. Safe, they hared for the Hall, heart of the Caer and of Gwynedd.

  A crowd pushed to enter at the wide-open oak doors. Men mostly, warriors already gathering for Cunedda’s spring hosting, but with a few women of the settlement elbowing their way through. A tumult of noise poured from within.