“Only, he doesn’t look like a man who lives beside a highway shrine, anymore,” Cai pointed out. “And if Cador actually bowed to him…” He looked at Emrys and raised his brow. “You’re the thinker,” he added. “You figure it out.”
“I’m the thinker,” Rhiannon reminded him. “Emrys is the fighter.”
“I don’t need a fighter,” Cai pointed out.
“You need all the help you can get,” Emrys replied, finishing the little routine, smiling. His smile faded. “We should watch Myrddin carefully, see if we can pick up anything else about him before we get to Coria.”
“Or we could just ask him,” Rhiannon pointed out.
“No,” both men said together.
“Why not?”
“Because he won’t tell us,” Cai said, with a perfectly reasonable tone.
“You don’t know that.”
“He hasn’t told us about himself for twenty years, except in general terms. What makes you think he will tell us now?” Emrys asked, his tone just as reasonable. “You always try to cut through a problem with questions, instead of unraveling the knot.”
“It resolves issues,” Rhiannon said.
“It hurts feelings,” Emrys replied.
“You’d rather believe there is a conspiracy, instead,” Rhiannon replied, ruffled. “It makes everything more exciting.”
“She has a point,” Cai added.
“There,” Rhiannon said. “Thank you, Cai.”
Emrys laughed. “Beat you to the next rise!” He kicked his gray, which took off with a snort, galloping with a ground-swallowing pace which looked smooth and easy. He raced around the head of the company in an easy curve.
“Now who is cutting through a problem instead of unknotting it?” Rhiannon complained.
Cai’s horse lurched forward as he nudged it to greater speed. He grinned.
“Hey!” Rhiannon shouted. She gripped her reins and bent low over the saddle. “Go, Tielo!” she urged. Tielo, who was already prancing to join his mates, took off.
Rhiannon laughed as she chased the other two. She ignored the mutters and sideways glances the rest of the company sent the three of them. It was a warm day, the sky was cloudless, and she was with the people she loved the most. She would not let the coming war spoil the day.
Chapter Five
I didn’t think there were this many people in the entire world,” Rhiannon whispered, three days later. The three of them paused at the crest of the mild hill which led down into Coria. She didn’t feel foolish for saying such an absurd thing, for both Cai and Emrys looked just as stunned, as they peered at the sight before them. The rest of the company filed passed them and through the narrow pass into the valley.
A town was built at the bottom of the long, low hill, with stout walls and watchtowers. The town looked busy—smoke rose from every roof, and movement showed between the buildings, although they were too far away to pick out individual people.
Around the town walls, on every side but the eastern one, an army camp was assembling. Just as Ector’s company was arriving, so too were other companies. They streamed in from three other roads leading away from the town, and across the meadow laid on either side of the narrow river which served the town.
“Look, there is the command tent,” Cai said, pointing. “Right in the center, as Steffen said it would be.”
“The surgery, the smiths, the engineers,” Rhiannon said, picking out the appropriate sections of the camp. “It’s exactly as my father said it would be—remember the map my mother drew?”
Emrys’ eyes narrowed as he took in the layout of the camp. “That is the Durnovaria banner, down there on the bank of the river. The blue and red, see?”
“What of it?” Cai said.
“They’ve been placed on the west side of the camp and the Dumnonnians are on the south, under the town wall. See?”
Rhiannon sharpened her gaze and picked out the green banner that was Dumnonia. “I see it.”
“As far apart as geography allows,” Emrys murmured. He smiled.
“Dumnonia and Durnovaria hate each other,” Cai pointed out.
“Exactly. The seneschal has kept them out of each other’s way,” Rhiannon added.
Cai looked surprised, then thoughtful. “So it’s not a purely Roman layout.”
“It started as Roman,” Emrys said. “Look at the straight rows for the kitchens and the engineers and the metal workers. Only, they’ve adapted it, made it British…”
Ector’s big war mount halted beside them, and Myrddin, who was riding a calm gelding today, instead of walking, came up on their other side.
“Now, lads and lady, mind your manners,” Ector said gruffly. He was a big man, from whom Cai got his girth and height. When Ector had been in his prime, he had been a formidable fighter—or so Steffen had assured them.
“Remember your upbringing,” Ector said. “You’re not savages. See you behave civilized.” He glared at the camp below. “There’s more down there to tempt you into crudity than you could ever imagine. Watch your step, hmm?”
“We’ll keep Cai out of trouble, sir,” Emrys said.
Ector smiled at Emrys fondly, his deep-set eyes warm. “I know you will.” He seemed to be on the verge of saying much more but contained himself to a simple nod.
“Lothian is arriving,” Myrddin said shortly. His gaze was on the far side of the valley where the north road speared between a thick belt of trees and disappeared from view. On that road was a company bigger than Ector’s. At the head, with the banner, rode a tall man with black hair and a sharp, beak-like nose. His officers rode beside him. Unlike most armed companies who kept their slower carts and carriages to the rear, an enclosed cart rolled directly behind them. It was painted with green walls, and narrow window apertures along each side. The door was stout and a guard sat in front.
Rhiannon guessed Lothian’s women were in the cart, shielded from prying eyes and guarded.
“Lot?” Ector said sharply and sat up, peering, his hand shading his eyes. “The northern lords are come?” He sounded amazed.
“You’re a northern lord, father,” Cai pointed out.
Ector didn’t answer. Myrddin did. “The northern lords are a political faction. You remember what I told you about Lot and Urien, and the lords who follow them? Caradog and the others north of the old Roman wall?”
“They fight each other all the time,” Cai said, sounding proud that he had remembered the fact.
“They have no love for Uther, which unites them,” Ector said, his voice a growl. “It is only the most extreme times like this which brings them under Uther’s command.” He grimaced, as if he tasted something foul. “They’ll depart as swiftly as they came, even before Uther gives them leave.”
“They’re here now,” Emrys pointed out, his tone calm. “The Saxons bring us all together for a common purpose. Does it matter how late they arrive, or how soon they leave, if they come at the King’s call?”
“There’s that,” Ector admitted. He glanced to his right, where the tail end of the company was passing by. “We’ve lingered here long enough. We should stake out our camp. Now, remember what I said. Comport yourselves with dignity and avoid shaming your elders.”
“Yes father,” Cai said dutifully.
“Of course, sir,” Emrys added.
Rhiannon said nothing. She was too excited.
And it was exciting to be among all the soldiers and followers and families who traveled with them. Every direction they looked in provided another interesting thing to study. Everyone wore different clothing, in gay colors. Even the leather armor, which had been refined over generations, came in a vast array of construction and shapes and design, so much so that Rhiannon twitched to study them in closer detail.
There were banners she did not recognize, despite being drilled by both her father and Myrddin to remember the devices of each petty king and lord, and the characteristics of each house, especially their fighting prowess and unique abilit
ies.
She saw the white banner of Cornwall just as Cador raised his hand. Cador separated from the Galleva contingent, his men following him as he rode carefully through the camp toward the white banner.
The unusually large black banner with the golden bear which was Lothian’s was threading through the camp, just as they were. It drew closer to them with every minute. Galleva would reach the white commanders’ tent before Lothian, though.
Ector climbed from his stallion and Myrddin from his gelding, as a man in a light blue tunic hurried up to them with a slate in his hands. “Talk to my son, Mark,” Ector told the man. “I must present myself to the King.”
Mark nodded and looked at the three behind Ector. Cai handed his reins to Rhiannon and swung to the ground. The man was studying Emrys, though.
Ector and Myrddin hurried to the commanders’ tent.
Cai removed his gauntlets. “Cai, son of Ector of Galleva,” he told the man, his voice as gruff as Ector’s often was.
The man stirred and gripped Cai’s hand. “Mark, brother to Tristan the Elder, and the High King’s seneschal.” He was not a great deal older than Cai and Emrys but looked as though he had lived much longer. An old battle scar ran down his temple, which drew the lid of his right eye down a little. “I have a place reserved for Galleva…do you read?” His voice was low and rough.
“I do,” Cai said, omitting to mention his complete disinterest in esoteric skills like reading. He glanced at the lines on the wax slate, frowning.
As he studied the roughly drawn layout of the camp in the wax, the Lothian company arrived in the open space before the commanders’ tent. The leading riders were all well dressed, heavily armed and tall. A second banner fluttered beside the Lothian one. It was black and white, with ravens.
Rheged, Rhiannon remembered. The two men at the head of the caravan were Lot and Urien, then. She examined them. Emrys studied them, too.
The tall, dark haired man with the beak nose she had seen from across the valley was taller than she had first assumed. Now she was only a dozen paces away, she could see he was half a head taller than anyone in his company, except for the other lord, who was as pale-haired as Lot was dark. The blond man wore his hair long, with shaved sides, and silver rings to hold it back from his face. He had a ferocious, jutting beard which was a darker, yellower blond than his hair.
Both jumped to the ground and looked at each other. The blond man’s mouth curled up in a sneering smile.
They strode across the ground toward the commanders’ tent together. The blond man swung his gaze around the camp, missing nothing, Rhiannon was sure. His gaze fell upon them and he came to a complete halt, his gaze fixed. His lips parted and his eyes narrowed as he took in the Galleva contingent.
He gripped the other lord’s sleeve and tugged him to a halt. The dark-haired one turned to look, too. His eyes widened.
Cai noticed the close inspection and frowned. “My lords?” he said, his tone enquiring.
Rhiannon could have hugged him. Cai was the one who asked the direct questions, more often than not. Diplomacy was not his strength. Yet his tone was pleasant now.
The dark-haired lord shifted his gaze and Rhiannon realized he had not been staring at Cai at all, or the banner over their heads. He gave Cai a short nod of acknowledgment. “Galleva,” Then he pulled the blond man toward the tent.
“That was…odd,” Emrys murmured.
“Very,” Rhiannon agreed.
The door at the back of the cart the two northern lords had left behind opened. The guard who sat before the door scrambled to lower steps to the ground.
“Do you have the location in your mind?” Mark asked Cai. He seemed harried and unaware of what was happening behind him.
Cai didn’t answer. He was staring at the Lothian cart, too.
Two women stepped down to the ground. They were so beautiful, Rhiannon felt dowdy in her new leathers and tunic and cloak and boots. Neither woman wore armor. Their gowns were of a fineness and detail Rhiannon had never seen before. She suspected their appearance was of a standard usually only seen in the High King’s court. The gowns were brightly colored—red and dark blue respectively—and clung to the women’s fine figures.
They both had dark hair wound and pinned and coiled in elaborate arrangements which flattered their clear faces and jaws and full lips. Rhiannon was too far away to tell what color their eyes were, although she could tell they had enhanced their eyes and lips with kohl and powders.
Their cloaks were full, falling right to the ground, and wound around their shoulders in elegant drapes. They wore bright jewelry at their necks and ears and wrists, too. Their belts were embroidered and carried more jewels, making them glitter and shine and glow in the early morning sunlight. Their beauty and their appearances made them stand out like glittering glass upon a plain, or two bright stars in an otherwise black night sky.
The tallest of the two looked around the camp with a disparaging expression. Clearly, the camp did not meet her standards.
The other watched the two northern lords move into the tent.
“Who is that?” Cai breathed, to Mark.
Mark glanced over his shoulder, then turned to study the Lothian company. “Those would be the ladies Morguase and Morgan.”
“No, not them,” Cai said. “Him.” He nodded to the other side of the cart.
Men camped along the sides of a broad avenue across the camp. The avenue was left open for companies and men to travel through the camp. A man on a black stallion guided the horse between the high side of the cart and edges of the avenue.
The man was possibly as tall as, or even taller than, Cai. Cai was the tallest man Rhiannon had ever known. Even Myrddin was a finger-width shorter, and a lot smaller around.
The man on the stallion was as broad across the shoulders as Cai. All similarity ended there. Cai shaved his chin, Roman fashion, as did his father, and kept his hair short. He had green eyes and a happy disposition. He spent his summers in a tunic and bare feet, and right now, he wore a plain tunic and trews, simple war boots and a plain cloak. His massive sword was just as plain and workable. He didn’t like decorations for the sake of it and refused to wear jewelry, including the seal ring which would one day be his. “I’ll wear it on a chain about my neck. I won’t wear it on my hand where it will change the grip on my sword,” he often said.
The man edging into the clear space in front of the cart and the Lothian standard bearer wore black from head to foot. Even the furs around his shoulders were black. His dark hair flowed over his shoulders and down his back. If it were shorter, it would probably curl. The length and heaviness of it contained the locks to shallow ripples. It was pushed back from his forehead, where it came to a point.
His brows were thick, over dark eyes and a straight nose. He looked around the open space with a scowl of suspicion, as if he expected enemies to pounce upon them right here in the heart of Uther’s war camp.
Harsh lines drew down from his nose, to disappear beneath a thick beard, outlining a square jaw.
His sword was gigantic, with a silver hilt and leather and silver wire wrapped around it. A yellow stone glinted at the top of the pommel. His hands were big enough to wield such a great weapon, too. He looked as though he would have the strength to use the sword one handed, even though the hilt had room for a second hand, if needed.
He stopped his horse in front of the women, shielding them. As the horse halted, a huge black dog with long fur and silver eyes padded up alongside the horse, its shoulders brushing the horse’s forelegs. The horses didn’t startle and was clearly used to the creature.
The light in the bright morning seemed to fade, while she studied the big man. It felt as if he was taking up all the room in the cleared area in front of the command tent.
“I was wrong, Cai,” Emrys said, watching the man on the horse. “You are a splinter beside that tree.”
Cai rolled his eyes at Emrys. “I could best him”
“I woul
dn’t be so sure,” Mark said. “That is Idris the Slayer.”
Rhiannon was startled.
Even Emrys drew in a slow breath, containing his surprise.
They had all heard of Idris the Slayer. About the entire armies he had slaughtered singled-handed and how he had fought day and night for nine days straight, without once stopping for food or drink or sleep.
“Idris the Slayer fights for Lothian?” Cai asked, sounding just as startled.
Mark seemed amused. “He does, more’s the pity. The King could use one like him on every battle field, not just these major ones.” He made a soft sound with his tongue. “But then, without Idris, Lot and Urien and their allies would have lost control of the north to the Saxons years ago.”
Rhiannon found it difficult to draw her gaze away from Idris the Slayer. He looked nothing like the monster the stories had made him seem to be, yet she could see he was prodigiously strong and fierce. Perhaps not strong enough to fight for nine days straight—she didn’t think anyone could do that.
Then he turned his head and his gaze met hers, and Rhiannon let out a shaky breath.
His eyes held her focus and drew it closer. The twenty paces which separated them disappeared between one heartbeat and the next. Even sound faded. Rhiannon heard nothing and no one except for the beat of her heart, loud in her ears.
Did the man draw his enemies to him the way he was tugging at her? It was little wonder he had slew so many, if he had merely to look at them to pull them in his direction.
Rhiannon could see the flesh of his cheek above the low edge of the beard—fine and clear. Was it as soft as it appeared? Men who had spent their lives on battlefields did not have soft skin. It was toughened from sun and wind and cold, tanned to a thick hide which protected them, yet this man’s flesh looked untouched. She itched to run her fingers over his cheek, to see if it was as soft as it looked.
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