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‘
You do. You know that Winta wishes to make
lasting peace
and that his people are
ordinary people. As ordinary as you or I.’

‘
Na,
I do not know that!’ Gwenhwyfar lifted her head, tears brimming. ‘I have heard
things about them, terrible things.’

‘And
you believe them?’ Arthur tossed back his head and laughed. ‘Were you not told
as a child th the demons would
come for you
if you were bad? You believed as a child, but saw-
reason when you grew.
It’s only ignorance that breeds fear,
Cymraes.
We fear the English because we know nothing of their ways or their gods.
Because their customs and laws are different
from ours we assume they
are mindless, uncivilised men and women. Not so long since, I thought that too.
Now I know the truth. I assure you, they are not monsters.’ Arthur did not hear
her mumbled answer, for the wooden
palisade
surrounding the village was looming ahead. The watch
had seen their
approach and the gate was opening, the English running to meet them, waving,
smiling, calling enthusiastic greeting.

‘I
would to all the gods I could believe you, husband,’ Gwenhwyfar muttered,
wincing as a spasm of pain arched through her. She did not look up, did not
want to see as they rode through the gate. She recognised the sound of it
thudding shut, heard and sensed the swell of people pressing close. Her eyes
were shut, she kept them shut. It seemed safer that way.

Winta himself strode through the settling snow to greet
Arthur,
his arms extended, his bearded face beaming pleasure. At his side walked a tall
woman, her head covered with a linen veil in the fashion of the English.

Arthur’s
smile was broad. He urged Hasta into a trot the last
few strides, leant down to clasp Winta’s outstretched hand,
their combined grasp firm and strong with
friendship.
‘Greetings, my Lord Winta! I come in peace!’

‘All
Hail to you, my Lord King, I welcome you in peace!’
Gwenhwyfar risked opening her eyes, saw through tear-
blurred
vision a tumble of wattle-built houses and a large gathering of fair-skinned
people. A sound, half scream half moan, left her. She clutched her belly with
one hand, fumbled for Arthur’s strong arm with the other.

‘Gwenhwyfar!’
Arthur cradled his wife, realised the wetness
on
her face was not only snow and tears; her panting breath was
not alone
from fear and tiredness. ‘Mithras! The child comes!’ Winta’s wife hurried
forward, took one brief look at Gwenhwyfar’s contorted face, and with a few
explicit words sent slaves scurrying to prepare for an imminent birth.

Arthur
leapt from Hasta, lifted Gwenhwyfar down and the Englishwoman swept her from
him. Gwenhwyfar no longer cared, nothing mattered, nothing, except this
god-awful pain.
She felt as though she were
being torn in two, one wave
crashing after the other, leaving her
gasping and sweating.

Other
Englishwomen flurried round, shepherding her to a small, rectangular hut, one
of many clustered around a central-built Hall that soared grandly upward to
meet the low press of
snow-thick cloud. Vaguely,
Gwenhwyfar realised the great Hall
looked little different from that at
her childhood home of Caer
Arfon. The
carvings were different, English spirits, English
gods and fancies, and perhaps the roof sloped
more steeply, but
little else.

A
central hearth-fire burnt cheerfully inside their destined chamber, beeswax
candles providing plentiful light. Furs and
hides
hung among bright woven tapestries, masking the
plainness of the daub-plastered walls and muffling any draughts;
a
deep carpet of herb-strewn reeds covered the floor. Chattering, tutting
concern, the women removed Gwenhwyfar’s heavy
cloak
and her sodden boots and dress, rubbed life into her
chilled feet and hands and dried her wet,
wind-matted hair.
They covered her
shivering body with a wann, soft quilt, stuffed with goose down. Someone
spooned a few sips of broth past her
lips.
It warmed her from the inside, tasted good. She would
have liked more,
but a birthing chair appeared and someone, Gwenhwyfar knew not who but thought
it could have been Winta’s wife, inspected the birth canal.

Strange voices in a strange tongue floated between the
searing redness of labour pains. Then Winta’s wife was leaning
over her,
stroking her damp hair, holding her hand. She was smiling, her voice soft,
speaking perfect, cultured Latin.

‘
The child comes
quickly. Have you had the birth pains
long?’
Gwenhwyfar nodded, managed to gasp. ‘Aye, but not
as severe.’
The gather of women had left,
and aside from her own
panting breath, the room had fallen quiet. The
flames, bursting out their brilliance of warmth and light, hissed and cracked
in
the hearth, flaring and sparking
occasionally as the one
remaining woman, aside from Winta’s wife, added
wood as needed. The wind snarled beyond the doors and walls, angered that it could
not get inside to destroy this comfort with its iced
breath. The door fur lifted and Enid, herself dried, warmed and fed,
entered quickly, ducking in with a blast of winter weather,
shutting it
out again by the closing of the door.

As
she removed her cloak and outdoor boots, exchanging them for doe-hide house
shoes, Winta’s wife wiped the sweat from Gwenhwyfar’s forehead, said, ‘Here is
your own woman come to help us, my dear. All is ready to welcome the child.’ Releasing
a shaking breath, Gwenhwyfar risked a glance at the tall, well-dressed woman
squatting before her. ‘I know not your name, but I thank you,’ she attempted a
smile, ‘for your kindness.’

‘
I am Hild. This is Eadburg.’ She gestured to the
other
woman who was busying herself near the fire. ‘She is much
skilled with the matters of birthing. Your husband
was wrong to
bring you.’
Gwenhwyfar
grimaced as another contraction came and passed. They were coming stronger now,
more rapid. The
English are good people, Arthur had said. She stretched
her
hand, took Hild’s fast in it. Na, he
was right. He’s always right.’ Another deep breath to control the tearing
inside her body. ‘My
sons,’ she panted as it faded, ‘where are they?’

‘Housed
with my own childer.’ And Enid was there, taking Gwenhwyfar’s hand, smiling
reassurance. ‘I have seen them well settled, my
Lady. Llacheu is
filling his belly
with a third helping of chicken broth and
Gwydre already is sleeping.’ Satisfied
that all else was well, Gwenhwyfar was content to
allow the room to recede into distant sound; her baby was
coming and nothing would end the pain of the
birth force, save
his safe arrival.

A time later, how long Gwenhwyfar was unaware – a
moment, a
lifetime – someone was speaking to her, calm but insistent. She was to ease her
breathing, the female voice said, to pant. ‘Hold back, my dear,
if
you
push now you will tear.’
A flurry of
movement, shadows leaping high on the wall with
the sudden flare of the fire. Gwenhwyfar’s hands flailed, no one
stood
beside her, she felt suddenly alone, frightened. ‘Do not leave me!’ she
screamed. Someone grasped her hand, held it, firm, strong fingers entwined in
her own. Hild.

‘
We are here. There is naught to fear.’ A pause,
talking in the Saex tongue, then a squeeze of pressure from Hild on her hand.
Excited,
elated. ‘I see the head, dark hair! Push now, push with all your strength.’

‘I
have not enough strength.’

‘You
have!’
Gwenhwyfar felt arms encircle her
from behind, a body with
the suppleness of a willow and the strength of
an oak, brace
against her own. She arched her
back against the English
woman and
together, they brought the child safe into the
world. Her body felt as though it were being ripped apart but she
ignored the pain, one more, one more effort and
it would all be
over.

The pain went, suddenly, abruptly. Relieved, joyous
laughter
from the two Englishwomen and Enid mingled with a baby’s thin wail of protest.
Hild left Gwenhwyfar, took up the child from Eadburg and placed it, a wet,
wrinkled, angry little
thing, at his mother’s
breast. For a moment Gwenhwyfar
hesitated, sweat dripping from her face
down her chin to soak her soiled gown.

Uncertain,
Hild remained motionless, the babe in her arms. She glanced with a question at Enid.

‘You
have a fine son,’ Enid said at Gwenhwyfar’s side, ‘who has his da’s bellowing
temper.’ That small, passing moment of confusion lifted, Gwenhwyfar smiled,
took the new life from
Hild’s
arms and gathered him to her, the pain and fear all forgotten.

‘What name do
you have for him?’ Hild asked. Gwenhwyfar looked up at the Englishwoman,
frowned. ‘It is
for the father to
acknowledge and name his son after the
birthing, not for the mother to
choose.’
Hild
turned away to deal with the expelling of the afterbirth.
‘For us,’ she said, ‘we share in the deciding
before the birth, there is
a name
ready for the gods to know so that they might straightway welcome the new son
or daughter to the hearth- place.’ She shook
her head. What strange
customs these British followed! Arthur entered quietly, surprising a young
slave dozing before the fire. She leapt to her feet, her eyes wide and fearful.
It occurred to him that it was not just his own kind who were lacking in trust;
these English held the same feelings for the British. He held his hands before
him, palms down, fingers spread, and emphasised his smile. He knew a few words
of her
own language. Pointing to himself
then to her, said, ‘Freond,
ja? Friend?’
She smiled understanding, amused at his poor pronuncia
tion. She
nodded. ‘Freond.’
Arthur held the door
covering aside, gestured for her to
leave.
She shook her head, pointed from herself to a sleeping fur
in one corner. Arthur let the skin fall, motioned
her towards
her bed, understanding she had orders to stay.

He crossed then
to his wife, sat gently on the edge of the wooden box-bed. Gwenhwyfar stirred,
looked up at him. ‘We have a third son,’ she said.

‘
I know. I have seen him, remember? I lifted him and named
him Amr.’

‘
It seems an age ago, a dream world. Strange, now
it is over, I barely remember the pain, only the pleasure of holding our son.’
She
took his hand, welcoming his presence. ‘Hild says it is like
that for most women.’ She sighed, relaxed her
bruised body into
the warmth of the bed, drowsing back into sleep. ‘I
like her.’
Arthur
laughed, bent forward to kiss her mouth. ‘Of course you do. I said you would.’

April 460

§ VIII

Winifred
delighted in showing her handsome built Hall and flourishing farmsteading to
visitors, no matter who they were;
men or
women of the Church, traders, harpers. English,
British, or foreigners from Hibernia, Gaul, and beyond. All
were
welcome at Winifred’s hearth, and word had spread fast along the sea-lanes and
traveller’s tracks of where good wine and a warm belly could be obtained for
the price of telling the news on the wind. Visitors were rare at first, when
Arthur had
divorced her and so cruelly set
her aside, dumped her here, two
miles down-river from the mouldering
Roman town of Venta Bulgarium. But Winifred was a woman who would not be
casually discarded on the midden heap and left to
rot. Her pride
was too important, and
the son she had borne Arthur, even
more so.

She was three and twenty, not the beauty her mother had
been, but
a handsome enough woman. Her flaxen-blonde hair remained covered beneath the
veil all Christian holy women
wore and her
dress was black, with only a dangling gold crucifix
and girdle keys for
decoration. Plain dress could not hide the vivid blue of her eyes, eyes which
had snared Arthur, once, seven years past when she had decided to have him as
her husband.

Princess
she had been then, only daughter of the King
Vortigern
and his English Queen Rowena, child of Hengest.
No one called her
princess now, for Winifred insisted on her
other
title, the one taken up when Arthur had placed a
marriage band on her finger and spoken the vows of God’s Holy
Law
with her. Lady Pendragon.