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Her hand swept out,
aiming to slap him. He ducked, shouted
the
truth of his anger. ‘You ought not to have stayed with that
girl!’ He was yelling at her, his hands on her
arms, shaking and
shaking her. ‘You are my wife, not some escaped slave’s
physician.’ Was I to abandon her and the child then? Leave them to die unloved
and afraid?’

‘
They
died anyway!’ Still holding her, refusing to let her go,
shaking her, he stormed, ‘You could have caught
some infection
from her!’ Calmer, gasping for breath, he released her,
stood before her, face contorted in anguish and grief. Said mutely,
‘Damn it, Cymraes ...’ Again he took her arms, but
more gently,
tenderly and
possessively. ‘I could not lose you for the sake of some
wretched slave
girl.’ He stepped forward, bent his head, kissed
her. ‘If you ever, ever, give me such cause for fear over your safety
again,
I swear I shall personally lock you in your chamber and leave you there until
such time as I return to release you.’
Before she could answer, he lifted her and carried her
back down the slight rise and into their tent.

§ LII

Morgause seethed, though she took great care
not to show it.
That whelp riding ahead would
gloat were she to show
discomfort –
and that satisfaction, under no circumstance,
would she give him. Called himself King? Ha! He was not half the
m
an his father, Uthr, had been! There was no time
that she could remember not loathing Arthur, as a boy or man. Had she realised
when he was a child what the man would become ...
ah, but
what use was stewing over
might-have-beers? The future was the
important
thing, if he intended to allow her a future. That Arthur
meant her to be
entombed as a prisoner, or to see her hang, she
had no doubt – and unless she could coil a tendril tight around the
Pendragon’s
damn neck soon, then such a disagreeable future looked set. Had she only borne
Uthr a son .. .

Her hands were bound and
her horse tethered to the one
being ridden in close
attendance; she rode straight-backed,
regally
and with pride. Ah no, she would not let her anger give a
public show! There
were, however, some intriguing compensations. The rumours that Arthur and
Gwenhwyfar were often quarrelling were true then. And what of those other tales
that had filtered north? The deliberate drowning of his own child, for
instance, and the murder of his mistress, the one who had been carrying
his child? She would have to discover more for
these were
things she could use to her own advantage.

She glanced at her
escort – guard – riding beside her. Were he not one of Arthur’s curs he would
be a most pleasing young man
to look upon. Good
chin, clear eyes, skilled hands. Torso and legs not too fat, nor too skinny.
She liked flesh on her men but not too much. A fat man, she had found, would
wheeze and grunt in bed like an old foraging boar, but a man of all bone would
have no stamina.

The morning air smelt
clean and fresh after the rain, the hills
and
trees wearing a tinge of autumn gold. A pleasant enough
day, considering her predicament. There was no hope of a
rescue,
those Picti turds – barbarian fools – had abandoned her to Arthur. So a few
settlements had been burnt, a few women and children slaughtered – were they as
important as herself! If Edda had lived ... if Lot had not been such a coward,
if those
damn fool men had not wasted time
in gathering the war-
hosting together
in the first place ... there, the ifs and buts
again! The horse beside
her stumbled and she glanced again at its rider, intending some scathing
remark, but a sudden instinctive inspiration changed the scorn to flattery. ‘You
handle a horse well, young sir.’

‘I pride myself that I am an accomplished
rider.’
Morgause lowered her sweeping
lashes. ‘I would warrant, any
mare would respond well to your, gentle,
guiding hands.’
Hueil’s
smile was swaggering. He knew as well as she that their words were not directed
at horses.

January 464

§
LIII

Morgause ran her
fingernail, a thing as sharp as a wildcat’s claw,
down the dark hairs of Hueil’s broad and muscular chest.
Sweat
still glimmered there, from the exertion of
their love-making. She snuggled sensuously closer, appreciating the warmth and
comfort of his body, for the governor’s palace at
Caer Luel was a
chill, damp place. She had never been one to lie alone
at night,
and saw no reason why being a
prisoner of Arthur’s should alter
her nocturnal requirements.
Experienced in discretion – her husband, for certain, had remained unaware of
her lovers – it
had come easy for Hueil, as
Captain of the guard, to be with
her.

A fine soldier, Hueil, with ability, skill
and courage. One of Arthur’s most promising young officers. The son of a
northwestern lord, Hueil wanted to be a leader, not a follower, and such a man,
a man who nursed ambition, fitted neatly into
Morgause’s
scheming palm. Neatly enough for the fingers
slowly to close around,
draw in deeper and ensnare.

‘
I hear
the Pendragon departed in a sour temper this
morning,’ she said, in her
honey-sweet voice. ‘Have he and
Gwenhwyfar
quarrelled again?’ She wound a curl of his
abundant, chest hair around her finger. Her hands were
slender, smooth; the skin unroughened and
unwrinkled by
labour or age. She took great care of her hands, for you
could
tell a lot about a woman by the way she
used her hands. ‘Lai,
lai,’ she sighed, ‘I really do not understand why
he keeps her as
wife. A woman with such a
sour tongue should surely be better
placed deep beneath the peat-bogs.’ Hueil
took her fingers, delicately kissed each tip. There was so much he still
wanted, was impatient to wait for – but this
woman,
this magnificent, beauteous, creature, was actually his,
all his! Even the waiting for a kingdom to call
his own paled into insignificance aside possessing the body of Morgause. He
lightly
bit her index finger, ran his hand up the smooth skin of
her arm
to fondle her
swan’s neck. The luck of Fortuna had certainly
smiled on him the day Arthur had ordered him to take personal charge of
the Lady Morgause. He smirked privately to himself, though by the gods, the
King had not meant quite so intimately personal! ‘I believe my Lady Pendragon
is still disgruntled over
your place
of lodging. The repercussions at the King putting you
here, in a
comfortable room,’ Morgause snorted through her nose, indignant. Comfortable?
Call this apology for a hovel, comfortable? ‘are even now, still rippling.’
Hueil chuckled maliciously. ‘It’s rumoured that our King took the choice of
attending this episcopal meeting at Aqua Sulis in preference to enduring her
ill-humour!’ He chortled louder, ‘For ‘tis no secret how Arthur does love those
men of the Church!’ He chuckled again, added, "Tis the one thing I agree
with him over, the pedantics of the Church!’
Morgause smoothed his chest hair, thick spread over his
muscles and spreading down to his navel. Her words simultaneously smoothing his
ruffled temper, which was as thick.
‘Your
father’s devotion to the Christian God has embittered
you, my lover.’ Sliding
an arm around her waist, Hueil drew her delightful
nakedness to him. Ah, but she felt good! ‘My father has as much
sense as a pack-mule. He is too tight shackled to
the will of the
Bishops. If he were to look beyond the walls of his
stone-built
church he would see that his
land is disappearing under the heel
of the Scotti settlers!’

‘One day,’ Morgause kissed his shoulder, his
neck, her lips cool against his flesh, ‘one day soon, he shall be gone and you
shall rule in his stead.’ Her lips moved to his chest. ‘And then you can take
the title of king yourself.’

‘That day may yet be far off,’ Hueil grunted
miserably. ‘Long-lasting health flourishes for my kin.’
Morgause bent her head, delicately kissed each of his nipples.
‘For you, then,’ she glanced up at him, her smile
seductive, ‘I am
glad.’ Thought to
herself, fool
man, there are many ways to ensure
health takes
a
turn for the
worst!
‘Then there is Arthur,’ she said.
‘Would he allow you to rule as you wish, not as
hecommands?’ She busied herself with her attention to his chest, keeping her
face averted, lest he read her thoughts too
closely. She had chosen
well in Hueil, but must not push too far, too
soon. Subtle m
anipulation; implanted
suggestions; words said in the right place
at the right time. He had
arrogance and ambition, qualities that
easily
overrode doubts of conscience. Hueil would not be a man to
balk over
trivialities such as loyalty and conscience when the eventual chance to take
what he craved was offered.

‘
When ... I
... am ... King,’ he said between kisses to the
crown of her head, ‘none shall tell me what I can or cannot do.’
He grasped her hair, forced her head up, placing
his lips on hers
in a prolonged kiss. ‘I shall need a queen, Morgause. A
woman
who would inspire men to take up arms
with me against any who
dared dispute my authority.’ He kissed her
again, possessive, with supremacy. ‘Any, who dare.’ Morgause’s breasts brushed
his skin as she shifted position.
She had
suckled no children, they had not lost their firm,
youthful shape. ‘Will
you find such a queen, think you?’ With his knee he parted her thighs, wanting
his pleasure. ‘Have I so far to look for one?’ Morgause feigned a response to
his clumsy, all too quickly
finished
coupling. He was a man too hurried and impatient, too full of his own
self-importance, to satisfy her desires. It did not
matter. The
mid-morning door-guard provided those extra
comforts
that a woman such as she required. It would not be so
easy to find
someone to secure her freedom. ‘You forget,’ she
whispered as he settled to sleep. ‘I am Arthur’s property now, to be
disposed of as he bids. I am his prisoner. I cannot choose for
myself.’ Sleep
was saturating him; through a yawn he answered, ‘Arthur would deny you are a
prisoner.’

‘
He
insists I am his guest, yet there are guards beyond my door
and letters I write are read – as are those few I
receive.’ She lay beside him, her body moulding to his. ‘What do we do if
Arthur
will not allow me to be your queen?’ Hueil’s breathing began to
deepen, through drowsing semi-sleep he said, ‘Arthur will have no say in the
matter, once I am proclaimed King of my own lands.’
Morgause smiled. For all his usefulness, this young man was
an arrogant fool! Did he think it would be so easy
to defy
Arthur? This thing must be carefully planned; as carefully
executed. She shuddered slightly. That was not a
word she
cared to use, executed. Her life – death – hung close to the
balance of the Pendragon’s whim. ‘I think, my
lover,’ she
mused aloud, though
Hueil was now asleep, ‘you must become a
King very soon.’
She lay silent, as he slept, watching the shadows
move slowly
over the walls, across the floor, waiting for dawn to finger
the cracks around the ill-fitting window shutters. All she need do
was nurture her seedling implantation, and wait
patiently for
the harvesting.

§ LIV

Gwenhwyfar sat on a low wall surrounding a
rectangular
ornamental pool in the gardens of
the Governor’s palace at
Caer Luel. Gardens looked so sorrowful in
winter, dead heads,
decaying stalks and
uncleared weeds, leaves greyed or browned
by the nip of frost, no flowers, no blossom. The Governor’s
Lady cared for the place as best she could, but
even her
enthusiasm did not extend into the chill bite of mid-winter. It
was January, and the garden was left to fend for itself until the
first delights of snowdrop and primrose should
show themselves
among the remnants of last year’s decayed splendour. The
air smelt of the sea, for the wind was from the west. It was a mild
day, a brief respite from the past weeks of a
cold, easterly blow
that had kept
everyone indoors huddled beneath their cloaks
and around the smoking
fires. Gwenhwyfar had chilblains on
her toes
that itched, sore, of an evening. She needed new
boots. She sighed and
cast a handful of pebbles, scooped from the pathway, into the thick, pea-broth
scum of the water. She missed Arthur. She sighed again, deeper. Yet, when they
were
together they invariably quarrelled. He
had not needed to
attend this synod,
could as easily have sent a representative, but na, he had wanted to swagger
before the Bishops, to show how
clever he had been to subdue and lay
claim to the North and
avenge the death and
destruction of Eboracum. Showing off she
had called it. Hence the
quarrel. They would not be impressed by his achievement of course, but Arthur
could never stay still in one place for long, not within stone-built buildings,
and not with a legitimate opportunity to be moving, doing. When he would return
was any god’s guess.