The Chosen Queen (24 page)

Even as she was searching for the words to express her sorrow, however, two messengers skittered into the tent-strewn compound, eyes wild and hands shaking as they leaped down from their
lathered horses. Gratefully abandoning her letter, she ran from the bower to join Griffin and his brothers in his hall. The Welsh king looked imposing in his war gear with his copper hair flowing
from beneath his royal helmet, but he was unusually pale. She rushed to him.

‘Griffin? What has happened?’

He gestured to the messengers, both on their knees.

‘These men come from my mother in Powys. She is under siege.’

‘Siege? But Harold is surely in the west?’

‘He is, my lady,’ Prince Bleddyn confirmed, ‘but our mother is under attack all the same.’

‘By whom? Who has invaded?’ She turned to Griffin. ‘Is it Hardrada?’

‘No!’ Griffin laughed bitterly. ‘No, not Hardrada, Edyth, though he may be at the root of it. It is Earl Torr. He and Harold are working together to trap us from both
sides.’

‘Torr and Harold? Together?’

‘That surprises you?’

‘Harold hates Torr.’

‘Not as much, wife, as he hates
me
. I knew I should not have taken the Viking into England.’ For the briefest moment he looked lost but then his eyes hardened, the
aquamarine run through with flint. ‘No matter. We will ride east to see off Earl Torr and then we will turn west and kill Harold. No one fights the Welsh in their own land and goes home to
tell the tale.’

He kissed her, hard and fast, then strode out to summon his captains. Within but a few hours, the entire camp of soldiers had marched out and the women were left to pace the half-buildings of
Rhuddlan. Edyth felt as if she had been plunged, warm from her bed, into ice water but now was no time for shivering.

‘Griffin always wins,’ she said stoutly to Becca as they closed the curtains on the boys’ bed, tucked, for now, into the opposite corner of the bower from her own. ‘No
one defeats him.’

‘Not even Earl Harold?’

‘He’s not battling Earl Harold.’

‘Not yet.’

Edyth dismissed this with a scornful wave.

‘This first battle should not trouble our troops too greatly; Griffin will not let a self-seeking, jumped-up idiot like Earl Torr defeat him. He’ll be back before Harold gets
anywhere near Caernarfon.’

She could not, however, stop herself opening the curtains to check on her boys, as if they might already be under threat and, sure enough, Harold moved with the speed of a hunting hawk. Within
two days messengers rode in to say that he had reached the city. Edyth received them on her throne with just her sparse guard and her maid for company.

‘What do we do if he brings his army here?’ Becca dared to ask as the messengers were shown to the rough camp kitchens for food.

Edyth looked down at her belly, so full now she feared she might give birth at any moment, and then to her maid’s, also sweetly curved.

‘We can hardly fight, Becca. We would have to surrender but Griffin will be here. He will not abandon us, I know it.’

She banged the arm of her husband’s vacant throne in defiant affirmation and sure enough, as the sun began to set, one of the young guards left on watch shouted out that the troops were
sighted. Edyth was out of the hall and up the steps of the half-built watchtower within moments, Becca hot on her heels. As they reached the top they saw men coming over the hillside beneath the
great dragon standard.

‘They return victorious!’ Edyth called down to the other women, amassing in the compound below.

They cheered but Becca was tugging urgently at her sleeve.

‘What is it, Becca?’ she demanded.

‘My lady, look, please. Does that seem like a victorious army?’

Edyth turned back to the horizon and she had to admit that although the men marched in formation of a sort, their shoulders were low and their steps slow.

‘It looks like a tired one, that is all.’

‘And a small one.’

The troops were all over the smudge of the horizon now and it was clear that there was scarcely a quarter of those who had marched out this morning. Becca’s hands went to her mouth.

‘Lewys,’ she choked and then she was gone, clattering down the wooden steps and heading through the gap where the gates would one day, God willing, be hung again.

The other women ran after her and suddenly the night was filled with names sent hopefully out towards the bedraggled troops like fishing rods into a dark ocean. It was horrifically clear that
too many would hook no prize and Edyth felt despair close in on her. How had this happened? How had the first King of all Wales been defeated? She could see Griffin riding at the head of his men,
seemingly whole, but Harold was coming and how was he going to fight again now?

Slowly Edyth went down the steps. She fetched the boys from their makeshift nursery and stood with one either side of her at the base of the tower, a miniature guard of honour to welcome her
husband home. ‘My lord.’

He slid from his horse and his feet buckled. Edyth jumped forward to steady him and nearly collapsed under his weight. ‘Griffin, you are hurt?’

‘No, just weary.’

She looked more closely and saw bruising beneath the skin of his cheek and a jagged scar below his ear. She saw dirt ingrained in his glorious burnished hair and exhaustion clouding across his
blue eyes.

‘You must rest.’

‘Rest?!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘There is only one way, now, that I will rest, cariad, and that is in the soil.’

‘Griffin, do not speak so. What has happened today? Were you defeated?’

‘No, not defeated but not victorious either. They withdrew when the light turned. Earl Torr, it would seem, did not want to chance his men in the darkness and he had no need. We are
decimated, Edyth.’

He pushed shaking fingers through his matted hair and glanced back to his men who were limping towards the hall, supported by their women, whilst those who had found only cold air comforted each
other behind. Edyth looked frantically round for Becca and saw her nestled up against a limping Lewys.

‘Praise God,’ she murmured.

At her side Griffin laughed bitterly.

‘I see nothing of God in this, Edyth. Any news of Earl Harold?’

‘A messenger rode in earlier,’ she admitted nervously. ‘Harold has been sighted at Caernarfon.’

‘He is upon us then. Has he many men?’

‘The messenger said two thousand.’

‘A thousand more than was reported at Cardiff. It seems he has new recruits.’

Edyth looked at the floor. She knew what that meant. This far from English shores there was only one way Harold’s ranks had swelled – the southern Welshmen had turned traitor.

‘What can we do?’

‘We cannot fight, not yet.’

Griffin turned his eyes south. The sun was all but gone now and the only thing Edyth could make out was the ripped-up edge of the Eryri.

‘So . . . ?’ she whispered.

‘So we do what we must – we go to the mountains.’

T
he men could go no further that night. Griffin let them eat and rest in the great hall whilst the women flew around tending wounds and
packing food and tents into saddlebags. John and his lads strapped the provisions to stout ponies and the moment the sun showed its face, those of the rough and weary party who were able moved out
of Rhuddlan and headed south-west towards the great Eryri.

Edyth walked at the front with Griffin, leading a stocky mountain pony with their two little princes on its humble back. Their crowns were packed away beneath oatcakes and dried meat and other
such vital supplies and they trod as equals with the fifty or so men, women and children seeking refuge on the mountainside. There would be a hard day’s walk before they even reached the
forest that swarmed all over the peaks and although they loomed, dark and foreboding, Edyth longed to reach them for they were very exposed on the open road.

‘I don’t like it, Mama,’ Morgan whispered.

Now five years old, he had his father’s physique and wild copper hair and usually bruised his way through life, but today he was cowering back.

‘There is nothing to be afraid of, Morgan,’ Edyth assured him. ‘The mountains are our friends. No one will dare follow us in there.’

‘Why? Why will they not dare, Mama?’

‘Why? Because, because they do not know it as we do, Morgan. What is safety for us is danger for them.’

‘But why?’

‘I know not!’ Edyth regretted her sharpness instantly. ‘I know not, Morgan,’ she repeated more calmly. ‘I have never been there but your father says so and I trust
him, as should you.’

‘I do,’ Morgan agreed stoutly, though his lip wobbled.

‘We will grow strong again in the mountains,’ Ewan told him. ‘And then we will go back and attack.’

‘Are the mountains magic?’ Morgan asked.

‘Yes,’ Ewan agreed firmly and, grateful for her sturdy six-year-old’s confidence, she did not have the heart to contradict him.

They reached the safety of the forest at nightfall and pressed on in the dark for some time before Griffin would let them rest. The next day they began to climb, tracing a way up one of the
numerous streams that tumbled carelessly downwards. The water was so very clear and sweet that Edyth began to feel better – surely such purity could not come from an evil source?

The sun was bright and birds sang from the trees and she felt the whole party start to relax. Rabbits and squirrels scuttled across the path before them and, if Edyth squinted into the light,
the scratched armour of the men nearly shone and the saddlebags might be bulging with feastings and the children could be jumping with excitement, not fright. She could not, however, squint for
long and she soon sank into a dull, grinding silence with the others.

The light clung on longer than their spirits and slowly they came to stop in a clearing and found the sky still blue above. The hillsides curved gently up and away and before them was a vast
lake, not so very wide but stretching out between two peaks as far as the eye could see.

‘Lake Colwyd,’ Griffin announced proudly, ‘named after a great Welsh warrior who fought with the legendary chieftain Arthur. We will make camp here but no fires. We are not yet
far enough away.’

‘We will never be far enough away.’

‘Who said that?’ Griffin demanded.

A soldier came forward, a rugged man, long one of Griffin’s prized warrior-band, though now he looked at the ground like a boy caught in mischief. As his wife tugged fearfully on his arm,
he dared to lift his head and speak out.

‘I am your loyal subject, Sire, but I see no purpose in this flight. Are we to live like wild animals the rest of our days?’

‘At least we will
have
days.’

‘We could surrender.’

A shudder passed through the bedraggled group.

‘We cannot surrender.’

‘Not to the English.’

‘They will kill us all.’

Griffin waved around.

‘My loyal subjects speak true – the English will hound us to our deaths. You are right to voice your fears, soldier, but those fears are misplaced. Now – our camp.’

The soldier looked to the ground again then backed off, taking his wife with him, and everyone went to work. Although there was space aplenty on the softly sloping banks of the great lake,
Griffin insisted they camp in the shelter of the pines so the tents ended up spread out for some distance. A light rain had started to fall and though it barely penetrated the trees it was mumbled
as an excuse to retire to bed. There would be no shared meal tonight, no singing around the fire, just a string of dark shapes joined by little more than hatred for the English. For Edyth, squished
in with Griffin, Becca, Lewys, the boys and her own swollen belly, it was an uncomfortable feeling.

‘
I must kill him
,’ Griffin had said and Edyth could see that was his only chance now – a surprise attack, an ambush. She should support him in it but, God knew, in her
heart she did not want Harold dead and as the night crept on she felt that hideous knowledge like a pain all through the centre of her being.

A long, frightening week ground past, alleviated only by almost absurdly warm weather. The refugees traced their way through the Gyderau mountains, moving from lake to lake,
heading for the furthest range, the Moelwynion. At first Griffin pointed out peaks and lakes to Edyth, sharing a little of the stories that seemed to surround them all, but as the days wore on he
stopped, as if even he recognised now that this flight was not part of a great warrior tradition but something far more basic.

Soon, though, the journeying would be over. Tomorrow they would reach the slopes of Moel yr Ogof where Griffin said there was a deep cave that could shelter them in safety. The promise of rest
had heartened the weary travellers and they’d picked up pace this morning but now they were skirting around the edge of the tiny valley hamlet of Beddgelert, unwilling to be seen by even a
handful of peasants, and the way was tight and overgrown.

Edyth had been persuaded onto the pony with Morgan, and little Ewan was walking stoutly ahead, like a midday shadow of his big father. Edyth was just watching his brave progress with pride when
she felt a sharp spasm. She put a hand to her belly and closed her eyes – surely not? Barely a moment later, however, another pain tore through her and she had to clench her teeth against
it.