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‘It’s not that young, it’ll soon be fully independent,’
Llacheu
observed. He took some meat off the
dishes on the table, held it
to the kitten, who took it and chewed
ravenously, spitting and swearing prolifically at Llacheu when he came too
close. They laughed again.

‘She’ll make a fine hunter that one!’ Ider
observed.

And then they were talking again, Gwenhwyfar
motioning
Ider to the stool, she herself
taking the comfortable chair.
Llacheu was playing with the kitten,
dragging a length of thin-twined rope around the floor, the cat leaping and pouncing
and growling. Ider told them of his wound and his healing, of the scar that
swept through his waist where the spear had pierced
him, nearly ending his life. With the thirst all boys have for
such
things, Llacheu forgot the kitten, which instantly flopped
to the floor and fell asleep, and asked to see the
scar. Ider stood,
removed his tunic and under-shirt to show them.

The door opened, whirling in a squall of
sudden falling rain and a gusting of wind that sent the lamp and hearth-fire
flames leaping in a frenzy of sparks and flared light. His cloak billowing,
Arthur stepped into the room, his boots rapping on the wooden floor, hearing
chatter and laughter, seeing, in that
first,
flurried instant of his unexpected entrance, his wife
kneeling before a man who was stripped naked to
the waist and
who stood near enough to the bed as not to matter.

§ XXVI

Arthur was undressing, preparing for bed. He
had come across
his wife, seemingly in that
first hasty moment, alone with a half
naked
man. He had leapt to a wrong conclusion, and felt
foolish. That made him irritable. Gwenhwyfar was
already
abed, nestled under the furs.
The kitten sat on top of her,
batting and nibbling at her playing
fingers. She had tried conversation, Arthur’s only answers grunts and mumbles,
and
so had given up, occupied herself with
the kitten instead.
Hiding her hurt.
He knew she was angry with him, and
embarrassed at his misjudged
reaction, but the thing was done, committed.

He had his tunic off, his boots, stood clad
only in his leather
bracae. ‘All right,’ he
said, not quite as calm and collected as he
had intended; he took a breath, tried again, ‘I jumped to
conclusions. I was wrong, I saw what I thought I
saw, not what I
was seeing. Throwing Ider out onto his arse was a
stupid, arrogant and jealous act, and I shall apologise to him in the
morning — but damn it, Cymraes, what was I
supposed to
think?’ He turned to look at her, his arms spread, helpless,
vulnerable. It was the only apology she was
going to get, and if
she didn’t like
it, then she could go to hell. He would not beg for
her forgiveness.

‘That’s the point, Arthur, you did not think,
you assumed.’ Gwenhwyfar lifted the kitten and put it to the floor, where it
scampered a few feet then squatted, puddling
among the spread
bracken. It
scratched at the dried stuff, then, leaping into the
air, bounded stiff-legged and tail as vertical as
a banner’s shaft,
sideways, like a scuttling crab, across the room.

No, he had not thought.
He had acted in a blind sudden-
come
rage of jealousy, hurling Ider from the room by the scruff
of his neck along with a torrent of abuse. Arthur sucked
his
lower lip, unlaced his bracae and stepped out
of them. It was only after, as he had slammed the door and turned to bellow at
his wife that he had seen Llacheu kneeling beside
her, and Enid standing behind. He shrugged his left shoulder, lifted his hands
again, his apology sincere. ‘I was a bit,’ he searched for a fitting
word,
tried a tentative grin, ‘hasty?’

‘You were a damn fool.’ She was laughing, for
all that her expression indicated cross indignation and the inflection in her
voice seemed harsh. Behind the pretence, the
laughter was
there.

‘Mithras, bloody hell!’ Arthur leapt into the
air, skittering a dance of pain and surprise; the kitten had jumped to his
thigh
and was clinging to the flesh. Wincing
and cursing, Arthur
picked it off,
and unhooking each claw from his skin, dropped it
to the floor, where it promptly sat down and
scratched
industriously behind its ear. ‘Gods damn the little sod!’
Gwenhwyfar was laughing outright now, her arm
clutching
at her stomach, pointing with her other hand at Arthur’s
predicament. ‘Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed, wiping at the tears, trying to control
her amusement but laughing all the louder.

Growling, Arthur
crossed to the bed, aiming a kick at the cat
as
he passed, earning a batted paw and scratched toe for the trouble. It did
nothing to ease his wife’s crowing.

Beyond the chamber, the
trumpets blared to signal the
change of the Watch.
The gates had been shut and barred —
anyone
still down in the tavern would be locked out for the
night with a charge to face come morning. Latrine
duty was the
usual punishment. Few
men missed the closing of those gates at
the second Watch.

Gwenhwyfar snuggled into
Arthur’s warmth, her mind
drifting
into that comfortable, drowsy place that lingered
between
awake and asleep. He shifted his arm around her, laid his face against her
hair. ‘Hello, wife.’

‘Hello, fool.’
Arthur grunted, hugged her body
closer.

‘
How was the bitch Winifred
then?’ Gwenhwyfar asked, her eyes closed, the daze of drowsing not quite strong
enough to bring full sleep. ‘Haggard and shrivelled? As sour-mouthed as ever?’

‘
She
tried to seduce me.’
It
was Gwenhwyfar’s turn to snort. She moved into a more
comfortable position, her arm going around her husband, liking
the
feel of his skin, even with its patterning of various scars. ‘That is one woman
I do not fear competition from!’
Arthur
kissed the top of her head, said, ‘She is still
handsome.’ His wife’s only response was a derogatory noise. She
nestled
her head into his shoulder, did not ask of Cerdic.

Distant noises from
beyond the walls filtered through into
the
chamber; the sound of the men coming off Watch going to
their beds, an owl flying low over the Caer calling to its mate. A
dog
barking, answered by another, and a man’s gruff voice
shouting at the curs to be quiet. The normal sounds of night and
a
place preparing to sleep.

Inside, the fire crackled as a log shifted;
the timbers of the
roof beams creaked as they
too settled. The bracken rustled
with
a slight sound, a small creature scuttled from the shadows,
sniffed at a
dropped piece of bread that the dogs had missed. There was enough light for
Arthur to watch the mouse as it squatted, nibbling at the prize held between
its forepaws. The kitten too, watched, mesmerised. She stared, wide-eyed, quite
still. The mouse must have scented her, for it ceased eating, froze a moment,
then panicked, spinning around and whisking back into its hole with a cheeky
flick of its long tail. The kitten
arched
its back, the fur standing up in spiky tufts, spat and then
fled into
the shadows running along the far walls.

Arthur slid lower into the bed, wriggling his
toes into the luxury of warmth. ‘Damn useful cat that one will be. It’s afraid
of mice.’
Gwenhwyfar laughed, and then, as
the last lamp flickered
out, said into the fire-glow, ‘I missed you.’
Arthur kissed her, then showed how much he had
missed
her, expressing with his body
why he had acted the jealous fool.
She was his woman, and he loved her.

February 466

§ XXVII

Clouds, like wisping mare’s tails patterned a
sky that was the
blue of a kingfisher’s
feather. A playful wind lifted
Gwenhwyfar’s cloak as she trudged,
breathless, up the rising ground towards the Hall. The doors stood open, pushed
wide back to clear the fug of hearth smoke, spilled beer and stale air
but she walked along the outer daub-covered
wattle wall, down
to the far end and
stepped through the similarly open door of
the private chamber at the rear. Inside, she spread her arms
wide and dropped the heavy weight of firewood.
With her bulk
of pregnancy, it was easier to drop the load, than add the
logs one by one to the heap. Enid entered, carrying water for the cooking pot.

‘You ought not carry heavy loads,’ she
chided, clicking her tongue in disapproval. ‘You have servants to do such
tasks.’

‘The wood needed replenishing.’ Gwenhwyfar’s
answer was mildly irritable as she eased the ache in her back. Only a few weeks
more and the babe would be born, thank the gods!

‘It’s a waste, you having servants.’ Enid sniffed her sarcasm. ‘Might as well be rid of us.’ She was a good woman, caring for
Gwenhwyfar and Llacheu, but inclined to fuss. Gwenhwyfar gave her an
affectionate, patient hug. Enid, for all her servant’s chiding, was a woman
worth her height in gold.

‘I’ll not carry any more wood, I promise.’ Enid nodded at the heap of logs. ‘No need now, is there? You’ve done it all.’
Reluctant as she was to admit it, Gwenhwyfar was
tired. She
had slept fitfully last
night, tossing beside Arthur, who had
barely stirred – the wine and ale
had passed around the Hall several times too many last night. She eased herself
into the wicker chair, a comfortable seat with arms and goose-downfilled
cushions, and closed her eyes a moment.

Enid shook her
head, tutted a muttered admonishment and
fetched her Lady a warming cup of
herbal brew. ‘Drink this, it’ll
be good for you and the babe.’ As if she knew these
things, added, ‘He’ll be here soon.’ Gwenhwyfar smiled, sipped at the drink. No
point arguing,
the birth was not due for
several weeks yet. She knew her dates, her monthly flow being as regular as the
moon-cycle, but it was
never any point arguing with Enid once she had
decided on a thing. Although, for this, Gwenhwyfar hoped her maidservant was
right.

She tried to doze, but
the restlessness that had been about her
during
the morning was reaching out to her again. There were tasks that needing seeing
to; the washed laundry was spread to dry in the day’s rare sun over bushes and
grass, it would need
gathering and folding,
and she ought to finish the tidying of her establishing herb garden. The frosts
were still common at night
and the more delicate plants needed their
protective covering of manure straw replenished. Straggle-grown bushes cutting
back, tying up. Then there were the herbs already gathered and
drying among the low rafters of the small chamber
adjoining
this one, where the jars
and pots and amphorae of preserves and
oil were stored.

Their harvested seed heads or petals would be
dried now. Ready for using in healing remedies, for making sweet scented
perfume pots, or for scattering among the floor rushes.

Noise and laughter from outside, a horse
neighing, men’s
voices. Arthur was back from
hunting then; he would come in a
moment, tell her of how it had gone,
after he had seen to the
horses. She ambled
about the room, twitching a hanging
tapestry
straight, setting a bowl of dried fruits to the centre of a table, fiddling
unnecessarily with unimportant things. Enid had
disappeared, was hopefully ensuring the slaves were folding the laundry
correctly. You had to stand over slaves, an idle lot, who
would do very little if they thought they could
get away with it.
Gwenhwyfar preferred free-born servants who had a
pride in their work and loyalty. But then, could a slave be expected to
have pride? Where was the pride in being a
prisoner, bound to a
lord’s whim and command?
She walked to
the door, stood in the weak afternoon sunlight
slanting through the opening, the
light catching her hair,
turning
its copper red to burning gold. Over by the stables, Arthur saw her, waved,
shouted something, she could not hear what. He looked happy, he was laughing
with the men and
Llacheu, pointing to a
fine, fat buck being carried up the hill for
the women to make ready for
skinning and cooking. The hide
would make a
new pair of boots for Llacheu. He was growing so!
As she thought of him, her son waved also; from
his expression,
he too had enjoyed the hunt.