Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Ambrosius unrolled the letter and read. The room was silent while he read. Everyone watched him, even Merlin.

  Ambrosius’ face was impassive, giving no hint of what lay in the letter, which was long. When he finished, he let the letter roll itself up and handed the loose scroll to Merlin, leaning across the table to reach him.

  Merlin read, as Ambrosius stood and cleared his throat, even though everyone was already watching him.

  A small figure pushed through the house servants and slaves at the door. It was Nimue, moving slowly. Her ethereal glow was still dimmed.

  “The letter was from King Mabon, in Calleva,” Ambrosius said. “Mabon is loyal to me and through his influence, so is most of the south, including Gorlois in Cornwall. Mabon says that throughout the summer the Saxon raids into the west have been increasing. They were not content to stay upon their shores, likely because they learned of the rift between Vortigern and his son and tried to take advantage of the disharmony.” Ambrosius paused, checking the faces in the room, tallying their attention.

  There was no need, Ilsa thought, for every man stood unmoving, their gaze fixed upon Ambrosius. Every woman, too. Everyone had seen and heard Nimue’s prophecy. Word had passed about the new messenger and Merlin’s commands, too. Even people who had not been on the verandah were donning traveling clothes and accoutrements, swords and heavy leather armor and cloaks.

  Ambrosius continued, “Vortigern in his usual fashion reached out to the Saxons through his queen, to see if an arrangement could be reached. The Saxons agreed to meet only if Vortigern could demonstrate he spoke for the entire country.”

  Ambrosius paused again. Ilsa could see a pulse beating heavily in his neck and his temple. He was controlling himself, holding something back. Her heart beat a little faster.

  “Vortigern pressured and badgered and bribed and coerced all the petty kings and dukes and leaders loyal to him to attend the meeting. It was the first any of them, including Mabon, knew of a potential deal. Even though they did not like compromising yet again with the Saxons, they had little choice but to deal with them and get them back behind their walls. It would give Vortigern room to deal with Catigern once and for all and maybe, just maybe, they could have a peaceful summer next year.

  “The meeting was to be held in Aquae Sulis on the full moon last month. Three hundred officers, leaders, dukes and kings arrived to demonstrate that Vortigern spoke for all of them. Mabon intended to be there merely to report back to me, only the ford across the Avon was flooded. They were forced to camp to one side to wait for the water to subside and did not arrive in time for the start of the meeting. When they did reach Aquae Sulis, it was all over.”

  Ambrosius paused again. This time he did not pause for effect. The working of his throat told Ilsa he gathered his courage to speak the rest of it.

  “Mabon spent a day learning what had happened from locals. The British contingent, including Vortigern, waited in the magistrate’s hall for Hengist to arrive. Hengist stopped at the town gates and sent word to Vortigern that he required a personal escort from the High King through a British town which held no love for him and his men.

  “When Vortigern left to bring Hengist to the hall, the doors were barred and the hall set afire. The roof and walls had been soaked in oil and Britain’s summer was as dry as ours. Mabon says the hall burned to the ground before Vortigern reached the gates.”

  Ilsa moaned. The blood. The death. Nimue’s shriek of horror. Three hundred kings and leaders of men. Now she understood. She looked at Merlin. The man had his eyes closed, pain etched in his face. The letter hung from his nerveless fingers.

  Ambrosius swallowed. “Vortigern did not return from the gate. Whether he rides with Hengest or did not dare return to the place where his allies were betrayed, no one knows for sure.” He paused again. “All of Britain rises against Vortigern. He has no one to turn to and few allies. Hengest and his Saxons have returned to their nests on the Saxon Shore and why would they not? Britain will do for them the work they could not finish for themselves. Britons will hunt Vortigern down and smoke him from his nest.” He looked around the room once more. This time, he was gathering their attention, holding them in his palm. “I will be there to see it done and afterward, I will deal with Hengist.”

  A soft sigh rippled across the room. At last, the time was here. Ambrosius would cross the channel and take back Britain.

  “We ride at once!” Ambrosius said. “We ride hard for the coast and the ships to Britain. The horn will sound in an hour and we wait for no one. Do not be left behind!”

  He whirled and strode from the room.

  Merlin sank onto the chair at the table and put his face in his hands. Now he knew the meaning of the message from his gods. Now he understood it and was as horrified as everyone else.

  Everyone who was not rushing to prepare to leave sat with stunned expressions. Soft sobs sounded.

  Ilsa wiped her cheeks and went to collect Mercury.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was as wild a ride to the harbor as Ambrosius promised. Ilsa’s horsemanship had improved over the years since their first journey to Campbon, yet she still found the journey taxing of both sinew and thought.

  The only other woman who rode with the men was Nimue. She had looked weak, yet she clung to the back of her white gelding like a bur, her face white beneath her hood.

  Among the company which rode with Ambrosius was both Bors and Ban, who reckoned their debt to Ambrosius to be heavy enough they must travel with him to Britain. Elaine’s eyes had been damp, yet she was calm when Ban climbed into his saddle and bent to kiss her one last time.

  They rode late into the night, until men slithered from their saddles onto the hard ground and laid uncaring. Only then did Ambrosius call a halt. The horses were gathered in a steaming circle about them, while the men laid on the ground without fire or food and slept. Ilsa, too. By then, she did not care if the ground was pure stone beneath her. It would be unmoving and silent. It would do. She pillowed her cheek on her arm and slept almost immediately.

  It was still dark when Arawn shook her awake. The pre-dawn air was still, carrying their voices and the clink of buckles and harnessing. Ilsa tried to jump to her feet as the others were doing. She yet could only move with slow, stiff movements. She bit back the moan which rose to her lips as her aching body protested, for Arawn watched, measuring her fitness.

  Still gritting her teeth, Ilsa moved over to Mercury and tightened his girth straps and prepared to ride once more. She wasn’t sure how she would get into the saddle. All her limbs felt like tree branches, heavy and unyielding.

  “Here,” Arawn breathed, behind her. His hands slid down to her knee and curled around it. She bent her leg and accepted the hoist upward. She scrambled into the saddle.

  Arawn’s hand rested on her thigh. In the dark, she could not see his face. The moon had set and there was little starlight to illuminate his features. “Do you now regret escaping your safe cage, Ilsa? You could be asleep upon a soft mattress at this moment, if you had remained in your chamber the way I wanted you to.”

  Ilsa fumbled for and found the reins and sorted them, giving herself time to think. “No, I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice low. “If I had still been in that cage, I would be quite mad by now. This is nothing, Arawn. I would suffer a thousand nights like this to be free.”

  His fingers squeezed, then he moved away.

  The horn sounded. The ride continued.

  THE TIDE WAS LOW when they cantered into Carnac shortly before noon, two days later. The town buzzed with energy. Engineering shops rang with the sound of hammers upon wood and metal. Forges blew and hissed and sizzled. Men shouted and beasts snorted and bellowed, their eyes rolling with alarm at the sounds of industry and urgency.

  In the harbor lying a mile beyond the town walls, Ilsa could see the small figures of even more men piling cargo upon the wharf. The hundreds of ships which had stayed at anchor in the bay, waiting for t
his day, now jostled for their time at the edge of the wharf, to take on their loads and set sail.

  With a jolt, she realized that most of the army town would be empty once the ships left.

  Arawn would be on those ships.

  As soon as the town gates shut behind them, Ambrosius threw himself from his horse. “Senior officers, to me!” he cried, striding into the house and yanking his gauntlets.

  There were audible groans and sounds of protest as the men eased off their horses. Ambrosius was driven by the proximity of that he had worked toward his whole life, while they had ridden through three days and two nights to an uncertain future.

  Ilsa lowered herself to the ground as slowly as they and held onto Mercury’s bridle until she was sure she could stand without assistance. Her legs trembled.

  How did warriors ride like this and arrive fresh enough to fight in battle? Or did the advances of a murderous enemy give them strength denied her?

  Arawn squeezed her arm and swung to hurry into the house behind Ambrosius.

  As pages and grooms hurried to gather the horses and take them to the stables, Ilsa followed the men into the house. She didn’t for a moment consider staying in the hall where Ambrosius would hold his meeting. It was for warriors and leaders.

  As she climbed the stairs to the interior verandah on the first floor, she could see Ambrosius moving in restless steps up and down the hearth. Officers reported to him on the state of readiness of ships and horses, battle gear and other supplies, men and equipment and more. The men who had ridden from Guannes with Ambrosius sprawled on the benches, or rested their arms on the tables, their heads upon hands or arms.

  Merlin, as always, stood behind Ambrosius. He was a figure in black, standing in shadows. Only his eyes glittered in the dusty light pouring through the windows, as he measured and assessed Ambrosius’ men.

  Ilsa found a servant and asked for an empty room and a washbowl and cloth. Cold water would refresh her at least, while she waited to hear how long it would be before Arawn left.

  THE ROOM PROVIDED FOR her ablutions was so small, no bed could fit in it. There was a washstand and a stack of benches used for the hall, below, when needed. A wooden bench, even a narrow one, would be far more comfortable than the stony ground she had slept upon lately. Ilsa curled herself up on a bench, meaning only to rest.

  She woke when Arawn shook her, startled, and tried to stand. He pushed on her shoulder. “Stay seated,” he murmured. With slow movements that spoke of his own great weariness, he sank onto the bench beside her. For a long moment, he simply sat, staring at the floor boards and the footprints they had made in the dust.

  Ilsa waited, too.

  “The ships are to leave at high tide at sunset, tomorrow,” Arawn said. “By then, the soldiers living in cots and villages around Carnac will have heard the call and will be here and the ships loaded.” He shook his head.

  “What is it?” Ilsa whispered, as her heart sank. Tomorrow!

  “Ambrosius wanted to leave with tonight’s tide. It took Merlin and a dozen officers to talk him out of such haste. The man has waited thirty years. You’d think a single day more…” Then he shook his head again. “Although, I understand his anxiety. The messenger from Mabon was at sea for a week. It will take a week more to return, plus whatever time we spend here in Carnac before we leave. A month, say. What has happened in Britain in the meantime? That is the question which drives Ambrosius now.”

  He fell silent again, as he often did. Now, though, Ilsa could not bear to remain a properly considerate wife and queen. There were too many questions gnawing at her, each bite delivering a jab of fear.

  “You will sail with him, of course,” she said.

  Arawn nodded. “It was always my intention to help Ambrosius win back Britain. He is my High King and always has been. This timing is not good, yet the fates have decreed the moment to be now.” He shifted. Stirred. “There will be little sleep before the ships leave, Ilsa. There are many messages to be sent. Letters must be written, to arrange matters while I am gone. I would ask you to help me with those. You write more neatly and quickly than I.”

  Their eyes met and Arawn’s smile formed slowly. “Yes, we have both come far since then, have we not? Able to write our own letters, which frees us from having to find a scribe—there will be none to spare today, for everyone has letters of their own to write. Ambrosius will tolerate no delays.”

  He stretched and sighed. “Colwyn must lead them now. He has spent his life watching me and before me, my father. He will do well enough until I can return.”

  Ilsa’s middle jumped. She said nothing, even though her heart ached. What was there to say? She would not plead with him to stay. Arawn had to support Ambrosius. All of Brittany did. Ambrosius would need every ally he could pull to his standard.

  Arawn’s fingers touched hers, where they both gripped the edge of the bench, between them. His gaze met hers. “Can you withstand another few weeks of rough living, Ilsa? I don’t know how long it will take for the household to reach us in Britain. Until they do, you must live with the few things you carry with you, just like a soldier. If it is too much to ask of you, tell me now and I will arrange for an escort to take you back to Lorient with the messengers. Or you could stay here in Carnac until the household arrives.”

  A high buzzing sounded in her ears. “You want me to sail with you?” she breathed.

  Arawn’s gaze shifted from hers. “Yes, you must come with me. How else are we to continue to try for a child? It is the only way to break the curse.”

  It felt as though someone had driven a stake into her belly and let out all the air. She sagged. Desperately, she sought for an response which would not betray her. “Would it not be dangerous for me to be among the fighters? You ride to war, Arawn. Just these three days of riding have given me a small taste of a soldier’s lot.”

  “You are free to choose, of course,” he said stiffly, his gaze on his knees. “I have learned—we both have—that trying to keep you from all harm does not work. The fates will deliver their promise no matter what I do. So choose. Come with me to Britain tomorrow or travel with the family, later. I would prefer you sail with me.”

  The dryness of his tone!

  In all this time, she had forgotten why Arawn had married her. She was a means for him to break the curse. He wanted her in Britain where the work could continue even as he fought Ambrosius’ war to win back the High King’s chair and drive the Saxons out. Arawn was so devoted to the well-being of his subjects he would drag a woman with him to war to fulfill his duty to them.

  “The family?” she said, her heart lurching. “You want the family with you, too?” It was the only part she did not understand in this sudden rush for Britain.

  Arawn pushed his hand through his hair. “I see you have not grasped what this summons to Britain means, Ilsa. We are not speaking of a mere few days. Ambrosius may well spend years dealing with Vortigern and bringing the Saxons to heel. Until he dismisses me from his service, I cannot return home. Nor can any of the kings who sail with him. We swore to serve Ambrosius and so we shall. I am not the only man who will arrange for key members of his household to come to Britain as soon as they may. For the next few years, messengers between Greater and Lesser Britain will fill the coffers of a great many ships’ captains.”

  She had thought herself bereft of air a moment ago. Now she was truly winded. Ilsa gripped the bench, digging her nails in. “I had no idea…”

  “How could you?” Arawn asked reasonably. “You have never seen war. This will be total war. We fight for our existence, Ilsa. With Vortigern disgraced and unable to raise a single British hand in defense of the island, the Saxons will swarm over it like ants, destroying everything and everyone as conquerors do. Only Ambrosius stands between us and the Saxons now. That is why he seethes to reach Britain sooner than the fastest ships can bear him.”

  Arawn’s gaze met hers again. “Which is it to be, Ilsa? Sail with me, or wait for Stilicho and
travel with the household he brings with him? Either way, you are coming to Britain.”

  He would ensure she did, to break the curse.

  Ilsa sighed. “I will sail with you,” she said.

  Arawn remained still for a moment. Then he nodded. He cleared his throat and got to his feet. “I will make the arrangements.”

  SIX DAYS LATER, THE fleet of thirty ships carrying the bulk of Ambrosius’ army and their horses arrived at the big harbor at Clausentum. More ships with supplies and equipment would follow and farther behind them, the households of the leaders of Brittany.

  Of the kings and dukes of Brittany, only Budic remained to oversee the defense of all the western Lesser British kingdoms. With Saxons pouring into Britain and Claudas still licking his wounds, it was unlikely trouble would stir so late in the year, when everyone focused upon building stores for the winter.

  Ambrosius’ army was twenty thousand strong, supplemented by the fighting forces of the kings who sailed with him. A bare day was allowed for the horses to throw off the effects of the sea voyage and the soldiers, too. While everyone recovered, Ambrosius sent out riders for news and pressed the local magistrate and bishop for any gossip.

  Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwell, met the fleet in Clausentum, with another two thousand men at his back, for word had gone out that Ambrosius was coming. Late in the day, a single rider arrived at the harbor gates, his horse half-dead beneath him and lathered with sweat.

  The message was from Mabon, who waited for them in Calleva, a good day’s ride north. Mabon’s news was urgent and fresh.

  Vortigern, along with the few allies still loyal to him, his Saxon queen and his courtiers, had holed up in Doward.

  Doward was only four days’ ride north, in the very heart of British and Roman lands.

  The next day, the company rode for Calleva.