War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Tristan the younger,” Cai answered, to her relief. “He’s fourteen and the King’s bastard. Not exactly acknowledged as heir yet. Dinadan, a foster brother of Tristan’s, although no one is sure who fostered him—the King or his brother.”

  “Or both?” Emrys murmured, studying the children. “If Tristan is the lighter-haired boy, he will be a good fighter. He’s got height on him already and shoulders, too.”

  “Who is the boy with the tanned skin?” Rhiannon asked.

  “Not tanned—he’s the son of the King of the Magyars,” Cai said. “Um…Sagramore.”

  Rhiannon pressed her fingers to her temples. “Oh, I should have learned all this when we first had the chance. I will never remember all these names and faces and people.”

  “You don’t have to,” Cai said. “You just have to know who the enemy is.”

  “And they are over that way,” Emrys added, pointing to the east.

  “Thank you,” Rhiannon said dryly. She sighed. “At the least, I should try to remember everyone in the Queen’s Cohort, as I shall be…” She swallowed. “I will fight with them tomorrow. It seems respectful to know who I fight with.”

  Cai looked stricken. “I don’t know who is in the Cohort anymore! They change from battle to battle, depending on which king is with Uther at the time.”

  Rhiannon rested her hand on his arm. “Never mind,” she soothed. She reached for a topic he could answer, instead. “Tell me about Idris the Slayer.”

  Cai’s face lit up. “Oh, he is such a fighter! He weaves the thumbs of those he has defeated on a string and hangs the strings on trees for the birds to eat. He gives no quarter. He’s strong as an ox. He rammed a building down with his head!”

  Rhiannon could feel her mouth curling down in disgust.

  Emrys laughed, though. He turned it into a cough but kept smiling, his laughter making his shoulders shake. “Is that what you want to become, Cai? A man who can butt a building to rubble?”

  Cai’s cheeks flushed. “They say he can see in the dark, as clearly as a man can see in the light. And he can see just as well in the daylight, too—as clearly as an eagle from on high.”

  Emrys shook his head in disbelief. “Go on.”

  “He’s half-wolf,” Cai added.

  Rhiannon jumped. Instinctively, her hand reached for the pelt she wore about her shoulders whenever the weather was cool enough to allow it. She slept with it beside her. “No, really, Cai.”

  “It is true,” Cai said stoutly. “Do you think that wolf would walk so calmly beside him, if he wasn’t?”

  “It’s a wolf hound,” Rhiannon replied.

  “It is a wolf,” Emrys said. “One from the plains. A black wolf.” His gaze fell to the fur spread over her packs and bags. “Tame, of course, although wolves don’t tame easily, so maybe Cai has a point.”

  He was teasing. She could see it in the sparkle in his blue eyes. Rhiannon thumped him in the arm, which didn’t move Emrys an inch. So she laid down and put her hand under her cheek and closed her eyes. “Shut up, both of you. I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about wolves and thumbs.”

  “I do,” Emrys said. “What else do they say about him, Cai?”

  Rhiannon sighed.

  “He’s never stepped foot in a civilized hall. He sleeps with the wolves.”

  “If he’s half-wolf himself, that follows,” Emrys said, his tone serious. He was trying hard not to tease Cai about this sudden enthusiasm for the northern warrior.

  “I suppose we will see the truth about that tomorrow, won’t we?” Rhiannon murmured.

  Tomorrow…when they met the Saxons in battle.

  Chapter Eight

  The uncertain light of dawn was still in the sky when a boot nudged Rhiannon awake. She shook off the leather sheet over her and watched dew drops roll to the ground.

  It was cold. She should be shivering and her belly rumbling with hunger, yet the tension in her gut stopped her from feeling anything else.

  Rhiannon tightened her boots and braided her hair to keep it out of the way, then made the adjustments to her clothes she had learned were needed for battle. She would be on horseback all day, which required preparation, too.

  Emrys handed her more of the dried meat she had come to detest. She had eaten too much of it.

  “It’s better to eat only lightly before a battle, remember?” Emrys said. All the teasing and warmth was gone from his voice. A fine line ran between his brows, which told Rhiannon Emrys was as tense as she.

  She took the meat and gnawed on it while she saddled Tielo and fussed with the straps and bit to get the precise fit she wanted. As she worked, she noticed men moving in small groups through the camp, heading east. They were all armed, most of them wearing metal-plated armor and helmets.

  They were going to war.

  The restriction around her chest tightened. She could delay this no longer. It was time to lead Tielo to where the Queen’s Cohort would assemble on the eastern side of the camp. They would ride together to the next valley, where the battle would be fought.

  Emrys and Cai approached her, both armed and ready. Cai gripped the hilt of his sword convulsively, his knuckles whitening, as they studied her.

  “For Galleva and those we love, yes?” Rhiannon said, repeating the little phrase they used when practicing the skills they would soon use against a real enemy.

  Cai gave a soft choking sound. He bent and pressed his lips to her cheek. “Don’t die, you hear? I can only stand Emrys telling me what to do if you’re there, too.”

  He stalked away, his chin in the air.

  Rhiannon swallowed, her heart thudding and swooping.

  Emrys pressed his hand to her face, cupping her jaw. His hand was not as big as Cai’s—no man’s was—yet it was a strong hand, all the same. His blue eyes were steady. “I would wish the same as Cai, but for different reasons.” He kissed her, too. Only, his lips pressed against hers.

  Rhiannon drew in a shocked breath. Emrys had never done that before. He teased and nudged and would roughly hug her, but he had never looked at her before with this light in his eyes.

  She shivered.

  He dropped his hand and moved away. Rhiannon watched him go, all thought gone, stolen by her surprise.

  Around her, the camp stirred with energy and movement. Many more men, dressed and ready, were streaming to the east side of the camp.

  Rhiannon joined the stream, leading Tielo along the winding paths the men made. Cai and Emrys were somewhere ahead of her. They would fight together, with the Galleva warriors.

  As she walked, she heard snippets of conversations, most of them highly personal farewells. No woman pleaded for their men to be careful, though. No one begged the fighters not to go, or to be safe. The farewells were quiet and contained and filled with unspoken emotion.

  Mark of Kernow, the King of Kernow’s brother, stood with the young children of their family. One, the lighter-haired boy, spoke as Rhiannon passed them. “I’m taller than Dinadan. I can fight, too!”

  “You’re young, still, Tristan. When you have the strength to hold a sword through a full day of fighting, you can fight. Until then, look after your sister and brothers. If we do not return—”

  Rhiannon stopped listening to the conversation, after that. She tried not to hear any of the quiet farewells. They made her feel even worse. Did a fighter feel this sick with every battle? Or was it just the first battle? She didn’t know. She had never thought to ask, in all the years they had been training for this moment. She had never thought she would feel this way at all.

  The Queen’s Cohort was easy to find, among the river of men moving toward the narrow pass between the hills which led to the next vale. The women were all on horseback and lingered, gathering together.

  Rhiannon lifted herself up onto Tielo’s back and settled herself, then rode carefully forward. Tielo was sure footed and didn’t step on anyone around him. He was a trained warhorse and the proximity of armed men near him did not fluste
r him. He moved through them with soft steps, snorting and shivering with eagerness.

  At least someone was pleased to be going to war, Rhiannon thought. None of the surrounding faces looked anything but grim. She was sure her own face was as gray and drawn as theirs.

  There were already nearly thirty women on horses, mulling together and murmuring. No one seemed to be willing to raise their voices, today. The clash of battle and the screams and shouts would happen soon enough.

  She eased Tielo up beside the other women and saw Queen Ilsa. Ilsa’s red hair was braided as tightly as hers, emerging from beneath a war helmet. Ilsa rode to her and nodded. “It is good to see you here. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Rhiannon lied.

  Ilsa’s smile seemed to say she recognized the lie. “Once it starts, you’ll be fine.” Ilsa’s tone was crisp. “In the meantime, review in your mind the maneuvers we discussed last night. It helps take your mind off…well, anything else.”

  “You can also think about how your blade feels slicing into Saxon flesh,” another woman said, coaxing her horse closer. She was bareheaded, her hair a golden wheat color and her eyes Saxon blue.

  Ilsa rolled her eyes.

  A much older woman sat on the back of the horse behind the blond woman. She had pure silver hair and brown eyes but looked sprightly. She clung to the younger woman with a good grip. “Ignore Lynette,” she told Rhiannon. “I can see you do not share her blood lust.” Then she smiled and her face looked much younger. “It may yet come to you. Lynette was a placid child, once.”

  Rhiannon blinked.

  “Rhiannon, meet Lynette the Elder and Lynette the Younger,” Ilsa said, then clicked her tongue. Her horse trotted over to other riders.

  “Mother and daughter?” Rhiannon guessed, as she nodded a greeting, although the two women looked nothing alike.

  “My mother was Maela,” the younger woman said. “When she died, I was only sixteen, so Lynette, for whom they named me, cared for me.” She grinned. “She trained me.”

  “In the art of seduction, not war,” Lynette the Elder said with a chiding tone. “Your mother wished for you to be well married, not fighting in the Cohort.”

  “Then she should not have formed the Cohort in the first place,” the younger Lynette replied. The same grin formed again. “Although Mother Lynette did her duty well—I did marry well, for a year.”

  Rhiannon couldn’t help but speak the question the young Lynette’s words prompted. “Why only for a year?”

  Lynette’s smile turned grim. “I killed him.”

  The older Lynette—Mother Lynette—sighed. “I do wish you were not quite so proud of it.”

  Rhiannon’s mouth opened. She stared at the younger Lynette. “Oh…”

  The older woman tapped the younger one on the shoulder. “Let me down. I will go no farther.”

  As the younger woman handed her foster mother down to the ground, she said with a casual tone, “Mervyn was a brute. He would beat me every night because he couldn’t…you know…in the bed chamber. He would have killed me, eventually, so I dealt with him.”

  Rhiannon couldn’t stop herself from staring in open shock.

  Lynette picked up her reins and rearranged them once more, then gave Rhiannon a small smile. “Now I fight so all women can be free of such burdens, if only they have the courage to take matters into their own hands.”

  The older Lynette called up from the ground, “I taught you to think for yourself, but that was not my intention.”

  “You would rather Mervyn had lived and not me, mother Lynette?”

  “No, darling one. I want you to live and be happy, always.”

  “Well, then,” Lynette said, as if it settled the argument. She kicked her stallion forward. “Let us make sure we live and be happy, then. Come, Rhiannon. You’ll soon understand.”

  Rhiannon nudged Tielo forward, leaving the older woman behind.

  “Elen!” Lynette called and moved her horse up alongside another. The woman riding that horse looked similar enough to Queen Ilsa, with red hair and a direct gaze, that Rhiannon guessed she was Ilsa’s daughter.

  “You’re fighting once more?” Lynette asked Elen, and waved Rhiannon forward.

  Rhiannon brought Tielo up on the other side of the red-haired woman.

  “Constantine is nearly a year old,” Elen said, with a chiding tone.

  “Already!” Lynette shook her head. “Elen, this is Rhiannon of Galleva, and it is her first battle. Rhiannon, meet Elen of Cornwall, wife of Cador, Duke of Cornwall.”

  Elen nodded at Rhiannon, and her eyes narrowed. “You are pale, Rhiannon. Never mind—it soon goes away.”

  “I hope so,” Rhiannon said. She realized that as they were walking and talking, the Queen’s Cohort headed for the pass into the next valley.

  “Elen! Elen!” The cry came from behind them. It was a male voice.

  Everyone turned and looked over their shoulders. A tall man, with black hair and beard and gold plating on his armor, hurried on foot to catch up with the horses.

  Elen smiled. “Alun!” She halted her stallion and bent and held out her arms.

  The man reached up and held her.

  “Brother and sister,” Lynette explained in an undertone to Rhiannon. “Alun is the King of Brocéliande, in Lesser Britain. Ilsa is their mother.”

  “It is good to see you,” Alun said, as he let Elen go and strode beside the horses as they moved forward. “I hoped I could speak to you before the battle began…” He paused and looked behind them and nodded a greeting. “Lady…”

  Rhiannon twisted to look behind her, too. There were more women on horses behind her. The nearest one was the white-haired woman she had seen in the Corneus camp. She looked as pale and ill as Rhiannon felt. Rhiannon guessed this was her first battle, too.

  The woman’s gaze was fixed upon Elen’s brother, the King of Brocéliande.

  “Mair, daughter of Bedrawd, Duke of Corneus” Rhiannon supplied, remembering Cai’s hasty recall from last night.

  The woman sent Rhiannon a startled look. Then her gaze returned to Alun. “King Alun,” she murmured.

  Elen, his sister, sat with a small, knowing smile playing around her mouth. “You’d better kiss her, brother. You may not get the chance after today.”

  Alun shook himself out of his attention upon Mair. He grinned up at his sister. “As you kissed Cador on the eve of the war with Claudas?”

  Elen smiled. “Direct and to the point has always worked for our family.”

  Alun laughed and slowed his pace until he was walking beside Mair’s stallion. He put his hand on the bridle to keep pace and looked up at her.

  Mair’s cheeks were flushed pink. “I would rather you kiss me after the battle, as a reward for my work upon the field today.”

  “The perfect warriors…” Lynette said with a soft sigh.

  Alun let go of the bridle. “We agree then,” he told Mair. “I will find you at the feast tonight!” He halted and let the Cohort move on, leaving him behind.

  Mair’s gaze met Rhiannon’s. The woman flushed even more deeply.

  Rhiannon gave her a reassuring smile, then turned to study the pass they were approaching, her heart picking up speed.

  Ilsa rode back along the file of horses, speaking to them in turn. “Once we are through the pass, we will separate into the two flank units we assigned last night. Lowri’s group is to head north. Those of you with me will move to the south.”

  Rhiannon was assigned to Isla’s group. She wondered if it was because she had never fought with the Cohort before. However, as they emerged into the wide valley, Mair rode off with Queen Lowri’s group.

  Rhiannon followed Isla around the edges of the battlefield, her heart hurrying even more. They were on the sloping sides of the valley. From there they could see the field below, and the armies arranging themselves in the positions the King’s War Duke had spent yesterday assigning.

  She recognized many of the banners now Cai had remin
ded her and Emrys of whom each banner represented. Their positions were similar to the camp arrangements. The white banner of Cornwall was at the far north of the valley, while Lothian and Rheged were on this side of the valley and toward the front line.

  The front line was clear, for an open space fifty paces wide lay beyond it.

  For the first time, Rhiannon saw a Saxon war host ready to fight. While the Britons stood quietly, preparing themselves, the Saxons swirled and mulled with no discernable order.

  They wore trews and tunics, leather armor and helmets, too. Their helmets, though, were pointed at the top. Their swords were broad, heavy things, and not every Saxon carried one. There were just as many swinging axes and hammers, cudgels and more.

  They blew horns and beat drums and shouted in their ugly language. Rhiannon knew only a little Saxon, for she had not enjoyed learning it even though her father had insisted upon it. She had forgotten most of it when the lessons ceased.

  Now she wished she had retained more of the language, for it would be useful to know what they were shouting. Or perhaps not. They would not be speaking about their strategies. They would be insulting the British, promising carnage and death and more. It was probably better to not know what they were saying. She was scared enough.

  From somewhere deep inside the British lines, a drum beat. It was deeper and slower than the Saxon cacophony. Rhiannon could feel it through her bones. She shivered.

  Then, a clear horn sounded, high and ringing.

  “Brace yourself,” Ilsa called back to her wing. “The first clash is the worst. We won’t respond until needed and I will tell you when to go. Prepare your weapons.”

  Rhiannon tied her reins and put them over one knee, then drew her sword. She settled the jerkin with a heavy tug. Lynette fitted an arrow to her bow, beside her, but did not pull on the bow.

  The two armies marched toward each other. At the head of the British, leading them, Rhiannon saw the huge black banner with the red dragon. The Pendragon.

  She scanned the field, looking for Galleva along the edges and not finding them.

  The ground trembled as the armies approached each other. Arrows flew in a deadly rain, dropping into the middle of both armies. Men cried out and dropped, and the space they left was filled by others.