His expression shifted. Had he guessed her thoughts? His eyes narrowed.
He turned his head away, yet his gaze remained on her until the very last moment. He bent to speak to someone on the other side of his horse. One of the women—the one in the dark blue gown—was speaking to him. Her voice was light and lilting. Musical.
Cai blocked Rhiannon’s view of the man as he lifted himself onto his horse and picked up the reins.
Rhiannon shivered and stirred, blinking. She brought her attention back to present-day concerns, of which there were many. How addled was she, to be distracted by a foreign lord’s officer—and one of the northern lords at that!
“I hope they gave Galleva a quiet location, Cai,” Emrys said, as they turned their horses and followed Cai out of the clearing in front of the commander’s tent. The rest of the Galleva company wheeled about in the clearing and followed them.
Cai looked thoughtful. “No, it’s not quiet at all.”
“Too close to the smithies?” Rhiannon asked.
Cai shook his head. He looked around, twisting on his saddle, until he oriented himself. Then he turned and carefully picked his way through a narrow alley between the camps of two houses—Listenoise on the right and Corneus on the left.
A bare space laid beyond them, right behind the commanders’ tent, stretching for a hundred paces in either direction. Cai halted his stallion and drew in a deep breath. “Not quiet at all,” he repeated.
“Right here?” Rhiannon breathed.
Emrys shook his head. “You made a mistake, Cai. Perhaps you mixed up the map. We just passed the Duke of Corneus’s camp, and King Pellinore’s. This space is right behind the command tent. It is for Bevan or Guannes. Even Brocéliande—the Queen is Uther’s cousin. That must be it.”
Cai shook his head. “I checked the drawing three times. I don’t read maps as easily as you and Rhiannon, so I made sure. This is the place.”
Her parents’ cart pulled up beside them. “This is a good place,” Steffen said, picking up his staff. “I can’t hear the smithies, I can’t smell the surgery and I can smell the kitchens. We’re close to everything important.”
“Including the command tent,” Anwen said softly, as he turned to help her down. “It is ten paces behind you.”
“Even better,” Steffen said cheerfully. “I would like to speak to Uther, if he has a moment to spare.”
Rhiannon stared at her father, astonished at the casual way he referred to seeking an audience with the High King himself. Steffen didn’t seem to feel the space allocated to them was inappropriate.
Rhiannon took her cue from her father and mother. She climbed to the ground and stretched. “I don’t care where we are,” she said. “As long as we stop moving for a while.”
Steffen turned his head toward her. “You have today to rest, daughter. Then you will find yourself in the thick of the war you wished for. By now, the Saxons will know Uther’s army has amassed. They will attack tomorrow, for sure.”
She shivered.
Emrys dropped his arm over her shoulder. “You will be fine,” he murmured. “You will honor your father’s teachings, and you will serve Galleva and Cai well. Don’t be afraid.”
“I am not afraid!” Rhiannon shrugged Emrys’ arm off her shoulders and glared at him.
Emrys smiled, as if he knew better.
“Point me to the command tent,” Steffen said, ignoring their bickering. He always did ignore them, unless one of them was stepping over the moral boundaries he insisted they keep.
“I will take you,” Anwen told her husband. “I would like to speak to Igraine for a moment or two. Rhiannon, you must come with us. You will need to present yourself to Igraine, to receive the request to join the Queen’s Cohort.”
“Igraine rides with the cohort?” Rhiannon asked, shocked.
“No, although it is called the Queen’s Cohort for a reason,” Steffen replied. “I don’t know who the commander of the Cohort is, anymore—it used to be Queen Maela, but…” He grimaced. “Igraine will direct you to the commander, at least.” He held out his arm. Anwen tucked her hand under his elbow, as if the two of them were strolling companionably together, instead of her guiding him through a busy camp with many objects which might trip him.
Emrys gave Rhiannon a little push upon her shoulder. “Secure your place for tomorrow,” he told her. “I’ll see to the camp and a fire for us.”
Chapter Six
It had been nearly twenty years since Ector last saw Uther. Ector and Merlin had heard troubling rumors in the last few years, so Ector’s curiosity to see the High King grew as they approached the command tent.
Ector had attended the royal court for only a few years after Uther’s coronation and hasty wedding to the clearly pregnant Igraine, before departing for the north. He had turned his back upon the court and settled into a steady, domestic life. Galleva was a small land, ignored by both the northern kings and the great, sprawling, grand kingdoms to the south. Tucked between the edges of the Forest Sauvage to the north and the great Roman wall to the south, with unscalable cliffs on the western coast, Galleva was naturally protected. It must have figured into Merlin’s considerations, for the man missed nothing.
Because Galleva was small and of little account in the grand scheme of things, Uther had not missed Ector’s presence in his court or the few hundred men he could furnish for battle.
The steady, slow pace of country life in an overlooked land was just what Merlin needed to raise the boy. Emrys had been four years old when he arrived from some unnamed, isolated fastness in Brittany. No one took any notice of the foster child Ector and Druscilla took to keep their only son, Cai, company.
The years since then had been full of pleasurable, domestic matters most men found boring. Ector had enjoyed the time immensely. Both Cai and Emrys had been a challenge to raise. Watching them grow and learn and bloom into the men they now were had been reward enough. Rhiannon was the grace note. She offset the boys’ ways, refining their attitudes and making them think.
Ector was damned proud of all three. Therefore, he walked into the commanders’ tent with his chin up, even though he was merely the count of a little land in the north.
It helped, he admitted, to have Merlin himself walking beside him. Ector was aware of the startled looks Merlin received. Rumor ran ahead of them and Ector could guess at the words. “Merlin! Merlin is back! Does that mean the boy he hid away in a glass mountain is back? What does this mean?”
The speculation would be rich and endless.
Ector sighed. Eventually, word would reach Emrys—enough to make him wonder. He was a smart man. Steffen and Anwen, with Merlin’s teachings on the side, had inculcated a deep curiosity in Emrys, a drive to understand what motivated men, how they thought…and how they fought.
No, Emrys would not ignore the rumors, once he heard them.
It was as well they would speak to Uther now, to settle how this matter must be managed.
Merlin, who was far taller, held the tent flap aside for Ector. Ector nodded his thanks and ducked beneath, stepping inside the big white tent.
He came to a halt, surprised. The last command tent he had stepped inside had been a simple construction of heavy, waxed linen and poles and a leather layer on the roof to keep out the rain. The King’s chair had been a folding stool and the floor had been the grasses and earth the tent was constructed upon.
This tent was nothing of the kind. Warm air bathed Ector’s face, reminding him that winter was reluctant to depart this year. In here, winter had been banished.
Thick furs and rugs laid over the ground. In all four corners of the front half of the tent, high biers burned, adding to the warmth and light. The inside of the tent was hung with more fabric and rugs, adding a layer to the walls which both muffled the chatter within and provided more warmth.
Instead of the simple folding stool Uther had used as his chair in the past, a monstrous chair with carved arms and back sat between the far bie
rs. The chair was taller than a man. The carvings on it included the Pendragon seal, with the dragon rampant, clawing at the air. The crown over the seal was rich in detail.
No one would doubt this was a king’s chair.
Uther, though, was not sitting in it. He never had liked to sit idly. Even now, he stood in the circle of lords and kings as an equal, part of the battle strategy discussions. Uther evaluated with a critical expression as Kernow handed out his directions for the placement of troops on the morrow, and their assigned roles.
Uther was a changed man. Ector made his face smooth out, hiding his shock. The change was from more than just the passage of years, although even the markings of time were significant. The vibrant red of Uther’s hair was now a dull color, more pale brown than red. Like true red-headed men, his hair was not turning gray. The red had washed away over the years, until all that was left was this pale memory. Even Uther’s beard was sparse and faded. It jutted as fiercely as ever, although it was not the luxurious growth Ector remembered.
Uther was frail. That was the most distressing change. His cheeks were sunken. He was dressed richly enough—he had an eye for stylish garments and luxurious materials. Rich embroidery and beading on his robe marked him indelibly as the King. Only, the wrists emerging from the sleeves were thin, every tendon showing as they moved. His fingers were little more than bare bones. Ector wondered how he had the strength to hold his great sword, which hung upon the high chair, as always.
Uther’s gaze fell upon Ector where he stood behind the circle of men. In one regard, Uther had not changed. His blue eyes were still bright with energy and the power of his will. His glance energized and drove men.
“Galleva, you are most welcome here,” Uther said, interrupting Tristan.
Every head turned to look at Ector. Ector recognized one of the faces, even though he had never met the man. Bors the Younger resembled his father, except for a great scar which slashed across his forehead and between his eyes. He was lucky he could still see.
Ector cleared his throat as everyone’s attention pulled to him. “We heard the general call. How could Galleva not answer?”
“Indeed,” Uther said dryly. “Everyone, leave us. I would have words with Ector.”
Surprise passed around the tent, like a cold blast of air.
Tristan lowered his slate. “Let us find a fire outside to stand beside while we talk of strategy.” He was taking Uther’s abrupt and unreasonable request in such smooth stride, Ector wondered how often Uther disregarded common sense in this way.
Everyone filed out, many of them glancing at Ector as they passed. At the entrance to the tent, Ector saw Lot and Urien pause, assessing the stream of emerging men. Tristan swept the two northern lords up with an encompassing wave of his arm and they turned and fell in with the rest.
Once everyone was gone, Merlin said, “I presume I should stay?”
Uther nodded shortly. He moved back to the high chair and sat more heavily than a vital man would have. How long had he stayed on his feet when he should have been resting?
Ector tried to push aside the dismay which circled through him. Now he understood why Uther had sent Cador to ensure Emrys was among those fighters who answered the general call.
Merlin frowned and moved toward the chair, reaching for Uther’s wrist. “Does the weakness strike you often?”
“Often enough,” Uther said, his tone flat. “Don’t fuss, Merlin. While you were hiding in the north, I’ve spoken to surgeons and witches and priests. They all say the same thing. I’m dying.” He stopped talking, suddenly breathless. His face was white.
Merlin considered him for a minute, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he reached for a big wine cup which sat on the table beside the high chair and sniffed it. “Poppies and wine. Harmless enough. Does it help?”
“Well enough to keep me on my feet, as long as I sit when I can.” Uther held out his hand with an imperious wave.
Merlin put the cup in his hand and stepped back. “Can you ride?”
Uther drank. He took his time. Then, his gaze on the contents of the cup, he murmured, “That is a question for the morning, when I must ride at the head of the army and meet Aelle head on.”
“There is a preparation I can make which will help you do that,” Merlin said. “Herbs I brought from the far east. They are preserved and have virtue, still. They will get you on your feet and keep you in the saddle for a while, tomorrow. Only, you will pay for the demands you make upon yourself, if you use it.”
Uther considered him. “Blunt as usual, Merlin.” His smile was skeletal. “I’ve missed you and your ways. I always know where I stand with you.”
“We understand each other,” Merlin said in agreement. “Your condition is why you called for Arthur.”
“My condition and twenty thousand Saxons amassing at the edges of the Saxon Shore. Is he ready?” Uther’s tone was abrupt, with a tiny note of anxiousness.
“To fight? Yes,” Ector said, keeping his tone as flat and business-like as the other two men, even though his heart was galloping and distress made him shake. This was all happening far too fast. He’d thought Emrys would have time to ease into his true life… “If you’re asking him to lead, that might be another answer. He still doesn’t know the truth and that will be shock enough.”
“He will learn it for himself soon, if you do not break it to him,” Merlin told Uther. “His appearance alone is raising speculation and my return is adding to the rumors.”
Uther frowned down into the cup. “My hand is being forced. I would not have had it this way, only…”
“You must do what you can with the time you are given,” Merlin said. “Let your officers help, Uther. They are all solid fighters and leaders. After the first charge tomorrow, let yourself fall back. There is no dishonor in that. Then you can observe Emrys—”
“Emrys?” Uther said sharply. “That is the name he knows?”
Merlin hesitated for the first time. “The world was looking for a child called Arthur. I had to use something.”
“Emrys…” Uther said, his tone absent. “Ambrosius, by another language. Yes, it fits well enough.” He scowled at Merlin. “I suppose you have been using your middle name, too? Is that how you wormed your way into his life?”
Ector drew in a breath, controlling his reactions once more. He had forgotten the sparring relationship these two men had. Uther insulted Merlin at every turn, while Merlin went about his business, arranging matters to meet his own silent goals, untouched by Uther’s contempt. The relationship worked well enough, Ector reminded himself. Under different circumstances, Merlin would have been High King, not Uther, and the knowledge constantly rubbed at Uther.
“I used the name Myrddin, as usual,” Merlin said, his tone mild. “Emrys believes he is a base-born bastard, his father unknown. That is the common factor we share which let him trust me.” His gaze was steady and neutral.
Uther’s jaw worked, the flesh over his cheeks flexing. Then he let it go. Ector could see him dismiss the matter and mentally shift to different ground. “I won’t acknowledge him. Not yet. Not until I have seen what he can do.”
“If he is worthy, you mean?” Merlin’s tone was cool. “Do you have a spare bastard to hand you will give the crown to, if Emrys does not meet your satisfaction?”
Ector held his teeth together and his eyes averted from Uther. Merlin was good at biding his time, then striking at the most vulnerable of a man’s emotions.
“You will find him worthy,” Merlin added, while Uther breathed heavily in reaction. “All three of them have had the fortune to be taught by the best in the land, who happened…” Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Who happened to be wandering through Galleva at the right time and didn’t mind spending a year teaching three striplings. That was your doing, yes?”
Uther rubbed his jaw. “Once I knew there would be no other sons, and where Arthur was, it seemed prudent to ensure the one son I did have was adequately prepared. Clearly, those I s
ent were discrete.”
“Indeed,” Merlin said dryly. “No one suspected a thing until today, when everyone has seen Ector’s heir ride into camp with a man who could be you in appearance by his side, and Merlin on the other.”
Uther nodded and picked up the wine cup once more. “Then, tomorrow, after the battle, I will meet him and tell him.”
They had been dismissed. Ector bowed and moved to the tent flap. He was more than eager to leave. There was much to think about and much to prepare for, too. Tomorrow, by nightfall, everything Ector had worked toward for twenty years would come to pass.
First, though, they must battle a Saxon war host determined to wipe them from Britain and take their lands as a prize.
Chapter Seven
Idris barely noticed the lords and kings emerging from the King’s pavilion. His thoughts were too chaotic for sensible considerations. The tumble of his thoughts was an added worry. Not being aware of his surroundings at all times was a quick way to meet a stray Saxon arrow or hammer, or one of their precious seaxs.
Idris realized he was staring blindly at his king, and the King’s cousin Urien. The two were murmuring to the King of Kernow, who was the High King’s War Duke, now Cadfael had passed. The three of them moved past Brennus’s nose. Brennus was well trained and didn’t snort or snap at strangers who came too close.
As they passed by, Lot glanced up at Idris and told him where the northern host was to camp. He pointed in the general direction.
“You’re nearly the last to arrive,” Kernow added. “You’ll see the clear spot easily enough.”
“See to it,” Lot added.
“Yes, sir,” Idris responded. He touched Brennus with his heels and the horse backed up slowly. It was said horses couldn’t walk backward. Idris had learned they needed time to coordinate their movements when they did, or they would trip over their own feet. He and Brennus had worked on it until Brennus was comfortable taking a few steps back to remove himself from tight spots which would stress any other war stallion.
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