The Chosen Queen (25 page)

‘No,’ she whispered down to the babe. ‘Not now, please – one more day.’

‘Mama?’ Morgan asked, looking back at her. ‘Are you well?’

‘Quite well,’ she sang but already a new pain was jabbing at her, and the pony, sensing it, skittered sideways.

‘There now,’ Edyth soothed, ‘steady now, keep going.’

She was talking as much to herself as to the beast. She curled her hands into its wiry mane and tried to focus on the rocky path immediately ahead.

‘
Just a little longer
,’ she willed her baby, ‘
then we will be at camp and you can come in safety
.’

The word ‘safety’ echoed hollow inside her and then, as if from afar, came a voice, low and certain: ‘
You are safe now
.’ Harold! What was he doing in her head?
Another pain shot through her, so sharp this time that she jumped and Morgan was nearly knocked from the saddle. His squeals alerted everyone.

‘Morgan,’ Griffin snapped. ‘This is no time for fooling around.’

‘It was not his fault,’ Edyth managed before her body jerked again and Becca, quicker than the king, spotted her face and ran over.

‘The babe?’

Edyth could only nod.

‘Christ preserve us,’ someone said, ‘not now.’

They all looked nervously around. The smoke from the hamlet fires could be seen rising out of the trees and ahead of them was an open plain. If any scouts made it this far they would be rewarded
with an easy arrow-sight.

‘I can go on,’ Edyth insisted as the pain passed. ‘It will not come for hours. Ride – please.’

‘But my lady . . .’

‘What choice do we have?’

Griffin strode over.

‘Ride with me, cariad. I will look after you.’

He took Morgan down from the pony and Lewys lifted the little prince onto his broad shoulders instead. Morgan was delighted with the swap, the poor pony perhaps less so, but it bore its load
bravely and the party moved on once more.

‘Can you do it, Edyth, truly?’ Griffin whispered in her ear.

She leaned back against his chest, hoping to suck strength from it.

‘The pain is no worse on horseback than off it. I may squirm a little though.’

He laughed softly.

‘It is your squirming that has brought us to this, cariad.’

‘You squirm too,’ she protested and then pushed against him as another pain came.

It was a hazy day for Edyth. They climbed sharply out of the valley and up into the Moelwynion. The mountain peaks seemed to lean in around her and the sun to stroke her brow. The crazy world of
tumbling streams and jagged rocks swam in and out of her vision as she fought the mounting spasms, rocking against Griffin whose arms held her tightly on the poor pony as they plodded ever upwards,
the forest growing denser as they climbed.

‘Not far now,’ Griffin promised. ‘We will be there by nightfall. It will be sheltered, dry, warm. We will be able to make you a bed and . . .’

Edyth, however, could no longer stop herself crying out. She all but climbed up her husband and Becca pulled alongside.

‘We must stop, Sire. The babe is surely coming.’

‘It’s not safe yet,’ one of the soldiers said but Becca turned on them, hands on hips, eyes sparking.

‘Then you go on and find your “safety” if you will. I shall stay here with your queen.’

The men looked down, shamefaced, and Griffin stroked Edyth’s hair from her face.

‘Can you go any further, cariad?’

‘Of course I . . . aaah!’

This pain was the worst. It shuddered through her, stabbing downwards as if breaking the baby free. Waters gushed down her leg and the pony reared in fright. It was only Griffin’s quick
reactions that kept them both from tumbling to the ground but as soon as he had settled the beast, he leaped off, bringing her tenderly down with him.

‘We stay here tonight. We have heard and seen nothing all day and the royal child has spoken out. John, we need a tent and fast. Can someone find water and blankets? Any women with
midwifery skills, we need you. This prince or princess will learn to be a fighter from its very first moments and I trust you all to help bring it into this world we are striving to hold in our
hearts.’

It was a noble speech and Edyth longed to respond but her body had other ideas. She clutched at a tree trunk as Becca, mercifully, rushed to her aid and it was left to Lewys to say:

‘I think, Sire, it may be too late for that.’

Edyth clenched the bark, forcing her nails deep into its rough softness as she bore down with all her strength. This was no royal bedchamber with soft sheets and warm water and clucking
midwives, but it mattered not – for this moment was all contained within her pulsing body and she obeyed its instincts.

‘That’s it,’ she heard Becca cry. ‘That’s it, my lady – one more push.’

Edyth gritted her teeth and bent her knees as Becca lifted her skirts. The tense hush of the little band of woodland courtiers sealed her in as Griffin gained her side. It was not dignified but
what use was dignity anyway? All she wanted was her babe safely in her arms and she pushed with the wrenching pains, down into the mossy earth of the Eryri’s wild slopes until she felt the
blissful release of birth.

‘I have it!’ Becca cried.

Edyth collapsed against Griffin as a plaintive cry rippled between the pines and her maid, like some sort of sorceress, lifted a tiny, pink baby from under her sodden skirts.

‘’Tis a girl,’ she cried, ‘a baby Princess of Wales!’

Edyth felt a light, giddy happiness rise within her weary body. Slowly she turned and reached for the child and Griffin’s arms tightened around them both as the courtiers stepped
respectfully back. Sucking in deep, clear breaths, she looked down in wonder into the sky-blue eyes of her daughter, gazing at her as if it was perfectly normal to be born beneath the trees on the
very top of the world.

Edyth was in bed at last. The tent was rough and the bedding damp but Griffin was warm at her side and the babe was suckling contentedly and for now it felt as rich as any
palace in the land.

‘It is a good sign, cariad,’ Griffin whispered, stroking her hair back from her face. ‘God has granted us the blessing of this beautiful daughter and he will watch over us all
for her sake.’

‘I hope so, Griffin.’

He drew her closer.

‘I have not been the best of husbands, Edyth, but I do cherish you, and the boys, and now this little princess. I wish—’

‘Wish not, Griffin. We will find a way forward; we always do.’

She was struggling to keep her eyes open and he kissed her softly.

‘You need to sleep, cariad. Here, let me take the babe.’

Gratefully Edyth passed the now sleeping child to her husband and watched as he cuddled her tenderly onto his broad chest. She was safe with him and Edyth felt herself drift blissfully towards
sleep, but just then a sharp call from outside jerked her rudely awake.

‘Who goes there?’

There was a rustle of undergrowth being parted and a squeak as someone was hauled forth.

‘Beg pardon, my lord,’ came a shaky voice. ‘I mean no harm. I come from Beddgelert. I was hunting. I heard noises. Are you . . . the king?’

Edyth glanced at Griffin, who had raised himself slightly, the baby still beneath his chin.

‘Of course not, lad,’ Lewys said roughly outside. ‘What would the king be doing in the mountains?’

‘We heard tell he had fled from Earl Harold.’

‘Not with us he hasn’t. We’re villagers, feeing the English bastards.’

Edyth could hear the whole camp holding their breath. It was dark and they were dirtied and torn from their travels but a single look at the quality of Lewys’s travelling cloak would tell
anyone with half a mind that they were no mere villagers. The boy, however, simply said:

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Lewys echoed.

‘Yes, why? They say Earl Harold is treating the Welsh graciously. He has no truck with common folk. He just wants the king – the queen too, or so they say.’

Edyth felt Griffin’s arms clench around her and had to bite at her lip to stop herself crying out.

‘What is that man to you?’ he hissed.

‘Nothing, Griffin.’

‘So why, then, does he hunt me down? Is this whole war over
you
, wife?’

‘No! Griffin, I have ever been true to you. I swear it. Please – I have just borne your child.’

At this the babe awoke and wailed. Edyth snatched her back from Griffin and clasped her to the breast but she could sense the tension rising beyond the tent flaps.

‘Griffin,’ she urged in a whisper, ‘this is not the time to argue. Please.’

He nodded tersely and rose.

‘The boy has to go.’

‘Go?’

Griffin, however, was up and ducking out of the tent and, weary as she was, Edyth scrambled to her feet to follow. She stepped out just in time to see her husband stride across to the fire and,
like a lightning flash, drive his sword up and through the boy before he could even lift an arm to defend himself. His thin body thudded to the ground amongst the branches and moss and Edyth stared
at it. The camp seemed to visibly shiver as men poured out of tents, circling the corpse.

‘You should not have done that,’ Lewys said quietly.

‘You question me – your king?’

‘Out here there are no kings.’

Edyth saw the men shift in the big guard’s direction then Becca flashed past her and ran to his side.

‘He’s right,’ another man said. ‘We are all exiles, running like cowards.’

Griffin bristled and planted his big feet more firmly in the ground. Edyth stroked her hand fiercely up and down the baby’s back. She wanted to intervene,
had
to intervene, but
she was so tired.

‘I am your king and while there is breath in me I will remain your king.’

‘Is that so?’ The words were low, menacing.

‘Please,’ Edyth started but no one paid her any attention.

‘The boy had done no harm,’ Lewys went on.

‘He would have alerted the hamlet,’ Griffin shot back. ‘Someone might have spotted a chance for gain and run to the bastard English who seek to take everything from
us.’

‘Including our decency?’ Lewys growled.

‘How dare you?!’

Griffin lifted his sword again and Becca screamed and leaped forward. Griffin saw her move just in time but could not curb his weapon. He twisted it so that it was the flat, not the blade, that
caught her but still the force of it cracked across her slender shoulders and sent her reeling. In a flash Lewys’s own sword was up.

‘No!’ Edyth cried.

Lewys was still holding Becca with one arm. He glanced at her and Griffin took his chance. His sword lifted again, visibly quivering with rage, but as he moved to strike he cried out in agony
and dropped his weapon as if God himself had struck it from his hand.

‘Griffin!’

He turned, slowly, and Edyth saw horror swirling his blue eyes like a grasping undercurrent tugging at the sea. A sword protruded from the soft spot beneath his arm, too deep in to doubt its
deadly path. Behind him a soldier stood, hands to his mouth as if in disbelief at his own action, but already his fellows were enclosing him, shielding him. Everyone watched as Griffin put up a
hand towards Edyth. She ran forward but he crumpled to the ground before their fingers could meet. Edyth flung herself down and clutched his dear head in her free arm. He looked up at her, drew in
a ragged breath, and spoke one final word: ‘cariad’. Then he was gone.

No one spoke. No one moved. From somewhere, as if miles up on the top of the Eryri, Edyth heard her baby crying and the sound echoed around her heart. Griffin had come so far,
fought so hard – for
this
? She remembered him on the beach the day he had asked her to help him keep his kingdom, so determined and yet so vulnerable underneath. Only she had ever
truly seen his fears; everyone else had been offered the fierce warrior and the riotous courtier – the face of kingship, not the heart.

All his life Griffin had truly striven to rule Wales as he felt she should be ruled and all his life Wales had resisted him. Now she had hounded him to an ignoble death in her own heartlands and
for a moment Edyth hated the country she had shared with her brave husband for nigh on eight years. Yet, he had known it would come. ‘
I could be king for another twenty years,
Edyth
,’ he had told her, ‘
or for just a few more hours. It is best, I find, to make the most of all this wonderful life offers
.’

Well, he had done that and she had been lucky to do it with him, if for all too short a time. Drawing her sorrow around herself like a cloak, Edyth buried her face in her husband’s fading
copper curls and wept. Still no one else dared do anything until, from across the fire, someone said: ‘God bless the king.’ It was a soft, clear voice and it drew Edyth’s head
upwards. ‘God bless the king,’ Becca said again. She was on her feet, her hand clutching tight at her injured arm but her head high. Slowly others joined her: ‘God bless the
king.’

Moved, Edyth sat back and, clutching her fatherless babe in one arm, she pressed the other hand to her heart as if she might physically hold it together. How could she hate Wales when it had
given her so much? How could she hate these people when they had stood side by side with her and Griffin through all their troubles – and stood still? No one dared look at each other. No one
spoke of blame and no one ever would. Griffin’s world had been shrinking for too long and this night it had sunk right in on itself. He had died by the sword and in this particular battle it
was not their place to question whose. Edyth joined the chant, a whisper at first and then a proud, fierce cry. They would be heard now. They would be heard by the people of Beddgelert. They would
be heard by Harold’s scouts. They would be heard by Harold himself but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered. The first King of all Wales lay dead in the dirt, halfway up his beloved
mountain – halfway up to heaven. Tomorrow the men would deliver him to Harold as a prize of war but tonight, beneath the stars, in a space out of time, they would sing him to his rest.