Shadow of the King (23 page)

immediate arrival, were to the effect she regarded his approval of this marriage

as a slight against her.

“At least I could have bred you a grandson with four limbs and an intel-

ligent brain. One wonders what her spawn will resemble!” That her barb

had struck home was clearly evident. Ambrosius’s grim reaction told, all

too plain, his thoughts were dwelling along those same lines. He could not,

of course, know Winifred was delighted by this preposterous marriage, for

the ending of Ambrosius’s line. All the better for her purposes of Cerdic’s

inheritance and for the annulment of her own highly rash suggestion that

had been instantly regretted. Not that she would have, for a moment,

expected Ambrosius to agree to the idea. Still, she really ought not make

such ill-judged offers again! And a third reason to enjoy the occasion: a rare

chance to stir the political waters and annoy Gwenhwyfar with the one

muddied stick!

A pity the wretched woman had recovered. Ambrosius, in Winifred’s

considered opinion, had missed his chance there. Had she been consulted,

Arthur’s wife would not have survived. Easily enough achieved, with the result

uncontested. Making her way slowly around the edge of the uproar of lively,

drink-heightened dancing, Winifred paused to gossip here and there, tossing

in her little comments, poking, digging. Ambrosius was a fool. Poison was the

answer to so many riddles.

A rustle of movement spread through the Hall like a wafting breeze.

Winifred’s eyebrows rose, anticipating more interest, more fuel to heat the

next few months with gathered tattle. It was time for the couple to depart for

the bedchamber. Winifred closed her eyes briefly, sent a swift, silent prayer of

reprieve. Woden’s breath! This could have been herself needing to face the

ordeal of bedding with a youth who was only half a man! She rose from her

seat, joined with the general throng of guests pushing their way towards the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 3 5

upper end of the Hall. Winifred quirked a smile that tilted half her mouth, her

mind anticipating the scene of these two unfortunates attempting to create a

mild spark of passion in their bed. She had forgotten her own comments to

Ambrosius; it was not Cadwy’s manhood that needed the crutch.

Ragnall stood, her hand placed lightly within Cadwy’s before the open door

of Gwenhwyfar’s own chamber that was for this night to be theirs. She ensured

her head was tucked well down; her veil she had replaced as soon as possible

during the evening, had pulled it well forward. They were all laughing at her,

she knew, sniggering and exchanging lewd, vulgar whispers. It always happened

on occasions like this, so she was informed, part of the ceremony. She would

not know, personally, for never before had she attended a marriage celebration.

She had not been old enough at her father’s stronghold, and weddings were not

the thing of a nunnery.

Cadwy, too, was nervous, although he took the humour with courage. He

knew his own capabilities, even if they did not. But what of her? How was this

intimacy to be concluded for Ragnall?

Gwenhwyfar stepped forward, raised her hand for silence, parried a few

hecklers, a few tossed jests with quick, amiable wit. “My lords and honoured

guests,” she said when quiet had eventually settled enough for her to be heard.

“The night grows late, already the moon is high and full. I fear that come the

morrow I will be left with a surfeit of roasted meats and fine wines.” More

calls, shouts of disagreement. “No, I agree with you sir, I hope indeed all the

wine will be consumed, but I fear it will not be so!” Gwenhwyfar indicated the

great oak doors that were swinging inward, the guests turned, shuffling feet,

murmuring, questioning. Four men were rolling in a great cask, trundled it to

the centre of the Hall, where they manoeuvred it upright, began the task of

prising away the sealing wax from the lid.

“My guests, there has been a grave oversight,” Gwenhwyfar apologised.

“This fine barley-wine was overlooked. I considered it right that it ought be

brought in to you straight’way, for I believe it to be of the finest brewing.

Please, sample its taste!”

They surged forward almost as one, pushing and jostling for their tankards,

glasses, and goblets to be filled. Cleverly done, for in that first moment when all

attention was focused on the issuing of the most prized of all wines, Gwenhwyfar

swivelled around and hastily ushered Cadwy and Ragnall through the door into

her chamber. “You will have privacy,” she said. “Bolt the door, none shall dare

attempt to open it beyond perhaps hurling a brief flurry of jests.” She smiled at

1 3 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Ragnall, a reassuring warmth of comfort, dipped her head at Cadwy. “I bid you

both a good night.” And she withdrew, shut the door, waited a moment until

she heard the two bolts slide deftly into place.

There was a token exclamation of disapproval, a few half-hearted disap-

pointed comments, but the barley-wine was, as Gwenhwyfar had promised,

an exceptional brew, and most gathered in that Hall had been dreading the

traditional ceremony as much as the bridal couple. After all, just how did you

put two disfigured cripples together into a marriage bed? Both men and women

found the thought abhorrent, neither sex willing to admit outright the ideal

marriage partner was beautiful and strong, virile and passionate. Hardly qualities

of those two!

Na
, the wine held better interest. There could be no embarrassment in

emptying the contents of such fine, strong-brewed stuff!

Thirty-Seven

The sounds of enjoyment beyond the bolted door were loud, but

indistinct, muffled, although the occasional roar of laughter came clearer,

more startling.

Cadwy sat on a stool close to the fire, nursing a goblet and leaning forward,

his arms resting heavily on his thighs. He had made no attempt to prepare

for bed, just sat, staring into the flames, occasionally sipping at the wine. The

confusion, the conflict of emotions were whirling in him with all the force of a

snow-melt mountain stream. Gushing and tumbling, going this way then that.

For a while, Ragnall had stood close to the door. He had politely offered her

wine also, but she had, as politely, declined. He had attempted to persuade her

to sit, but adamantly she had remained standing. For perhaps half of one hour

they stayed in their chosen positions with no sound passing, save the crackle of

the fire and the revelry beyond that shut door.

Ragnall moved first. Although she was nervous, frightened of the future, of

what tomorrow would bring, she had to put an end to this unbearable silence.

Cadwy looked up to see her kneeling before him, her head bent, veil tipping

forward to hide all her face. He wanted to reach out, touch her, show her she

had no need to be feared of him, but he could not. He did not have the courage

or the boldness. Did not know where, or how, to begin.

“Am I so displeasing to you?” she quivered. “If,” her voice was little more

than a tremulous whisper, “if we were to extinguish the lamps, my disfigure-

ment would be hidden from you.”

Ashamed of himself, inwardly cursing his rudeness and lack of thought by

ignoring her for so long, Cadwy tipped her face up, his fingers gentle under

her chin. With his other hand, he slid the restricting silk from her head. Her

disfigured side was away from the fire, blurred in shadow, and the side of her

face that was lit showed her to be a young woman who could easily, were it not

for misfortune, have been handsome.

1 3 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“
Na
,” he said, “I like you as you are; the flicker of lamp and fire light strikes

pleasing colours in your hair.” He surprised himself; it was no idle comment,

for it was true. She had black, raven hair, which shimmered like the polished

jet beads of a woman’s earrings or necklace. He toyed for a while with a strand,

sliding its softness between his fingers, then ran them down the smooth skin

of her cheek, soft and supple beneath his touch. “You are not displeasing,” he

said, with truth on his lips. He sighed, “Yet, I must be a disappointment to

you.” Forcing a self-mocking laugh, he indicated his twisted leg. Her response

was immediate, defensive.

“Not so, my lord!” She blushed, lowered her eyes from his. “I find you

most,” she hesitated, risked a quick glance at him, “most pleasing.”

A surge of hope coursed through Cadwy, hope and pleasure, the despon-

dency and doubts beginning to waver. Something Gwenhwyfar had said at Yns

Witrin, that day when they were baying for Ragnall to die, came suddenly back

to his mind. So deep wallowed was he in his present despair he had forgotten it

until now.
You are both most suited
, she had said.

Aye, they were! They were indeed! He snorted laughter, took Ragnall’s

hands in his, leant forward and attempted a tentative kiss. She responded, eager,

with no fear or sign of revulsion. His second kiss lingered, and he found his

hands to be going tighter around her, wandering, more intimate.

Breathless, flushed, they broke apart as a bellow of laughter sounded from

beyond the door, as someone heavy of build crashed against it. Their faces

turned together, alarmed, embarrassed, but there came nothing more, save loud

voices. The new-married couple, it seemed, had become forgotten.

“What a pair we are!” Cadwy smiled. “Each of us uncertain of our appearance

to the other. We both know full well,” he tossed his head over his shoulder,

jerking a look at the door, “what they think of us. Need we question ourselves

also? Even if we are fools about all else, we at least know how painful those

sneering glances and barely whispered comments are.”

Ragnall’s answer was spoken with the tears thick in her voice. “If it would

please you,” she offered, “I can wear my veil full over my face while in public.

I will not shame you.”

Incredulous, Cadwy rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. How could she

think so ill of him? “I am not ashamed of you!” he protested hotly. “Indeed, I

have a pride in you, pride for your courage and determination! Your voice has

such a sweet sound, your goodness is as obvious as winter berries on the holly

tree. I would not hide you from the world! Why, your…”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 3 9

But Ragnall, blushing at this sudden outpouring, put her fingers to his lips,

stopping him from talking. No one, save for Gwenhwyfar, had cared to speak

so kindly to her. “I am not used to such compliments,” she declared. “More of

this and my head will be turned!” Confused, and more than a little embarrassed,

she moved away from him, steadying her quick breathing, taking time for her

hot face to cool. For want of something to do with her hands, she took up the

jug of wine, refilled his goblet.

She tried again to sort some form of sense from this whirl of inexplicable

madness. “If it is my voice that pleases you so much, I can wear my veil when I

am alone with you, so my disfigurement shall not spoil your pleasure.”

“There is no need,” Cadwy began, and she crumpled to her knees, sinking

down to the rushes where she squatted, hunched, miserable, and shaking,

weeping. His run was hobbled, but urgent. He hunkered next to her, took her,

cradling her into his arms, again and again asking with desperation what was

wrong. What had he said to so upset her?

At last she managed to control herself, to ease the sobbing, to gulp a few

words. “Do I try to hide this ugliness from your dear eyes, or from the discom-

fort of others who sneer and talk behind your back? I know not what to do!

Know not which way to please you.”

He was bewildered. Why this anxiety, this distress? Please him! She already

pleased him. “Be beautiful for me then.”

She bit her lip, astonished, a little hurt. “Then others will sneer and talk.

They will say, “Look at the hag Cadwy has taken as wife!”

Cadwy countered, “Then wear your veil in public.”

Her expression of horror deepened, she caught her breath, exclaimed, “You,

then, cannot bear for them to see me thus? I knew it!” And she rushed to her

feet, scuttled to where her veil had fallen, retrieved it and fastened it, with

trembling hands, to hide her face as well it could.

As quickly, for all his lameness, Cadwy was at her side, removing it again.

“Truly, I am not concerned over your looks. What you are is within you, not

shaped outwardly on the parts we all see.” He smoothed her ruffled hair, smiled

warmly at her. “Wear your veil as you see fit, when and where it pleases you.

Where it helps you feel comfortable, at ease, with me or in the public eye. I

care not, for I care only for you, Ragnall, for you.”

He kissed her again and took her, before she could protest, to the bed that

was Gwenhwyfar’s and Arthur’s. Claimed her for his wife, to prove to her,