War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Idris had met many men who were old souls in young bodies. Merlin the Enchanter was that way. Everyone who met him was surprised by how young he was. People who had lived a dozen lives in the space of one fascinated Idris, for they were everything he was not. They had traveled and seen sights and acquired knowledge Idris would never be privy to.

  Rhiannon was the first woman he had met who gave off the same air of having lived a full life which had profoundly changed her. Often, war changed a man, only this was her first war.

  She was a dangerous lure.

  He could still feel her lips on his. Could hear her soft sigh.

  “Idris!” The command in the voice told Idris it wasn’t the first time his name had been spoken.

  He straightened and looked to his right. Ellar, Lot’s seneschal, had come up beside him. The man scowled. He wasn’t pleased his first summons had been ignored.

  “The King wants a word with you,” Ellar said gruffly. He let his horse fall back.

  Idris sighed and nodded.

  Because the road was so narrow, it took long minutes to jostle with other riders and drop back to where Lot rode with his sons and household officers. The King was positioned so that when Lothian rode onto a battlefield, the King and his sons would be behind the bulk of the Lothian fighters, shielded from the first rush.

  Idris’ place was, of course, on the front line.

  Gawaine, Lot’s second-oldest son, made room for Idris with a nod and kicked his horse forward.

  Idris fell in beside the King and dropped his reins over Brennus’ back.

  Lot was one of the few men Idris knew who was as tall as him. Lot’s shoulders were narrow, though. He had a wiry strength which served him well enough in the field, although he was a better strategist than he was a fighter. Lot, unlike many kings, acted as his own war duke. Because of his height, he and Idris were eye to eye. Lot didn’t look at him though. He kept his beak of a nose jutting forward.

  “My lord,” Idris said.

  “I’ve heard you and the Galleva woman…” He hesitated, picking his words with care. “You met, this morning.”

  Idris kept his face neutral, hiding his annoyance. They had been in full view of the camp. Anyone could have seen them and mentioned it to Lot. Had they also mentioned that the ‘Galleva woman’ had kissed him?

  “My lord?” Idris said. It was a neutral response, not committing him to anything until he learned what prompted Lot to speak of this. Idris felt as though a bear trap laid in front of him, unseen, yet deadly. This was Lot, after all. Lot would only speak directly to Idris if there was a pressing need to do so.

  Lot turned his chin. His eyes were a proper highland black, although there was a muddiness about them which had always made Idris wary. The King’s smile showed teeth which overlapped each other. “Given the woman’s family connections, you are the least suitable man in the world to dally with her.”

  Ahh… Then Lot had noticed her foster brothers’ resemblance to the High King, too. He was a strategist and would not let such an opportunity go wasted.

  “I was not dallying with her, my lord,” Idris said carefully. “She wanted to ensure no ill feelings lingered after last night. That is all.”

  Liar! Liar! The whisper caught at his throat and squeezed. His heart was working too fast, too.

  “How considerate of her,” Lot replied. He made the compliment sound like a sneer, with his resonant voice. “Be warned, Idris. Leave the woman alone. She is the daughter of the High King’s most trusted advisor and one of his oldest friends—”

  “She is?” Idris was startled. He had not looked beyond the man sitting beside her, last night.

  “Steffan of Durnovaria,” Lot replied. “I see you know the name.”

  Idris was impressed. Durnovaria had trained her, then. That was why she was such a good fighter, and why she had used the quarter staff with such devastating effect.

  He recalled the astonishment he had felt when, in the middle of a battle, she had chided him to watch his back, after riding over the top of the Saxons who had planned to take him from behind.

  He had grown lax. He had become complacent and confident that Lothian men guarded his back…and he had been wrong.

  Idris said nothing of the fury which had swamped him when he realized his foolishness in trusting anyone on the battlefield in that way. It was not his place to protest to the King. He would monitor who was behind him, in the future.

  “The woman is educated and influential,” Lot continued. “She is a powerful political pawn and far beyond your reach.”

  Idris gritted his teeth, to hide his seething.

  “She is not for the likes of you, Idris,” Lot finished. “She is worthy of a king.”

  “Emrys…” Idris muttered, remembering the scowl on Emrys’ face.

  Lot snorted. “Gaheris, you fool.”

  Idris leaned forward, startled, to look at Gaheris, Lot’s heir, who sat on Lot’s right. Gaheris was tall, like his father, but slender like a reed. His clear face was flushed. He kept his chin forward, unable to look at either of them, mortified by his father’s manipulations.

  Ah, well, he was still young. He would learn swiftly enough that everything a king did was to maintain his power, including wedding and bedding women.

  Idris sat back. “I see,” he said carefully.

  Lot looked at him once more. “I do hope so,” he said softly.

  The hair on the back of Idris’ neck crackled and stood on end.

  ON THE SECOND NIGHT OF their race to the south, Rhiannon was woken from deep, exhausted sleep. Elen bent over her, her hand on Rhiannon’s shoulder. “Your father is here and wants to speak to you. I’m sorry to wake you, Rhiannon.”

  “They caught up with us already? How late is it?”

  “There’s no moon to tell,” Elen added in a whisper. “Very late, I think. He’s over by the stream.”

  Rhiannon could hear the murmur of sounds she had not heard for two days. The creak of wagons. The crackle of cooking fires and the heavenly smell of stew warming in cooking pots.

  She pulled the leather sheet around her, for it was cold. She had kept her cloak and fur on, too, instead of merely laying them over her. She hurried through the much larger camp to where the little stream jumped and tumbled over rocks. She could see her father’s silhouette before she got there. His staff was against his shoulder, as always.

  Rhiannon hugged him.

  “Tired?” he asked her.

  “Are you not tired? You have not stopped for two days. We at least have slept.”

  “As have I. There is always a corner to spare in a wagon somewhere for a blind man who trips over his own feet unless guided.” There was no bitterness in his voice.

  Rhiannon’s mother had admitted that when she first met Steffen, he had been bitter about his blindness. Time had smoothed the resentment away…or perhaps that had been her mother’s doing.

  “Your mother has hot food and bread for you. You should eat your fill, then go back to sleep. You will be on the road at first light and we will take another two days to catch you again.” He drew her across the field as he spoke, toward the white tent which marked Galleva’s camp. He would have noted the way to the stream when he first arrived and now he would walk it like a sighted man. His tactile memory was flawless.

  Rhiannon took his arm. “Something hot sounds wonderful,” she admitted, as her belly rumbled.

  Only the small cooking fire burned in front of the tent. Anwen sat beside it. She smiled at Rhiannon and handed her a bowl and spoon, as Rhiannon settled on the ground beside the fire.

  Rhiannon ate swiftly, burning her tongue and not caring. The bread was stale, although it had been toasted over the flames. Rhiannon dipped it in the stew and chewed. “I don’t understand why, if you can catch up with us like this, the whole company doesn’t travel together,” she said around a mouthful of bread.

  “Listen,” Steffen said, then remained silent.

  “Listen to what?”
Rhiannon asked.

  “To nothing,” Anwen said. “Everyone sleeps like the dead, as they could not sleep for two days and two nights. If the war host traveled with us, you would be just as exhausted.”

  “Tired fighters cannot fight well,” Steffen added. “By racing ahead, you can snatch sleep during the night. Tomorrow, you will race ahead again. And tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, you will find the Saxons, for you are making such great speed. While we will remain here to sleep, then stir sluggishly and follow you. Speed wins wars.”

  Rhiannon nodded. “I should be grateful you remained awake long enough to start the fire and warm the stew.” She lifted the bowl. “Thank you for this.”

  “That is not the only reason we stayed awake,” Steffan said. He turned his head, as if he was glancing at Anwen.

  Her mother caught the movement and sighed. “We heard chatter on the way here, about the northern man. Idris.”

  Rhiannon lowered her spoon. “What about him?”

  Steffen held up his hand. “Smooth your hackles, daughter. You are a warrior and have earned your place among the Queen’s Cohort. You are as entitled to the spoils of war as any other man. Neither of us would deny you. We—both of us—know what army life is like, though. And we must warn you about the man.”

  “That he looks to northern lords and an association with him would mark me unfavorably? I am aware of this.” Rhiannon held her voice low and hard, to hide the anger building in her. “He warned me, too.”

  “That isn’t the only consideration,” Steffan said.

  “You’ve been content to serve the High King,” Anwen added in a rush, as if she was speaking because she could not contain herself. “You have always been choosy until now. Why this man? You have two of the best men in Galleva to choose from—”

  “Cai and Emrys?” Rhiannon said, stunned. “You want me to choose one of them?”

  “Why not?” her mother asked, in a reasonable tone.

  “Emrys loves you,” Steffan added. “Later, when everything becomes so much more complicated, it might be enough to hold him to you.”

  “I don’t understand, father,” Rhiannon said. “I don’t love Emrys. Not that way. He is my brother. So is Cai.”

  “Idris of the north would bring you nothing but grief, darling one,” Anwen said.

  “Thank you,” Rhiannon said.

  “For what?” Anwen asked, puzzled.

  “For not calling him Idris the Slayer. He is not a savage.”

  Steffen sighed.

  “Even the most casual alliance would embroil you in trouble you do not need,” her mother continued, her tone pedantic. “There are things you don’t know, which you must understand—”

  “No, Anwen,” Steffen said softly. “It is not our place to speak of it.”

  Anwen fell silent.

  Rhiannon looked from her mother to her father. Her heart thudded. “What is it you cannot speak of?”

  Steffen shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Not if you say you do not love Emrys.” He planted the foot of his staff and hoisted himself to his feet. “It is difficult for you, I know. There are political considerations tugging at you which you are hardly aware of. Just remember, Rhiannon, that this is the High King’s army, not the practice field at Galleva. You are in mighty company now and can hold your head up among all of them. You should choose accordingly.”

  Rhiannon handed her bowl back to her mother and got to her feet, too. “Are you saying I am too good for a man like Idris?”

  Her father hesitated. “No,” he said finally. “I would be a hypocrite if I said so, and it is not what I mean at all. My hands are tied, daughter. I cannot explain to you fully, in a way you can understand, not without Uther’s permission. You must trust me when I say to be wary of Idris and the politics which surround him.”

  “Lot and Urien…” Rhiannon breathed, putting it together.

  “And their wives,” Anwen added. “Both are the High Queen’s daughters, remember.”

  Rhiannon shuddered, as cold fingers walked up her spine. It was as if the world had shifted under her feet and was now not the same place it had been a moment ago. “I’m not interested in politics,” she said resentfully. “I just want to fight and serve the King.”

  “Politics is interested in you, though, Rhiannon,” Steffan said. “You cannot ignore the influence you wield because of your birth and upbringing.”

  “More double-talk,” she snapped. “You’re a blind man who was once a warrior, like me.”

  Steffen sighed. “If that is all you believe about me, then your years of education have been completely wasted. Good night, daughter. If you meet the Saxons upon the road tomorrow, good fortune be with you.” His tone was stiff. He was angry and hurt.

  “Father…” Her eyes prickled hard.

  Steffen sighed and held out his arm, to draw her against him. “You will choose your own path. You are too much like me. Be wary, Rhiannon. Not every man in Uther’s army is a friend.”

  She kissed his cheek. “My years of education have not been wasted. I knew that before we arrived at the camp. I will be careful.”

  “Then I will say no more. Sleep. You will need it, tomorrow.”

  Her mother picked up the leather sheet which had fallen from Rhiannon’s shoulders. She tucked it around her again, as her father moved unerringly to the tent and disappeared inside.

  “I don’t understand,” Rhiannon whispered. “Why must this be so complicated?”

  “Because it is complicated,” Anwen replied gently. “Made more so because we cannot speak plainly. Soon, I hope, you will understand far better.” She brushed Rhiannon’s hair out of her face. “Are you drawn to the northerner, Rhiannon?”

  “I hardly know. He scares me,” Rhiannon admitted. “He pushed me away from him, just as you are trying to do. And there are depths to him…” She chewed her lip. “When I speak to him, I feel as I do now with you, that there is something just beyond my sight which would completely change my understanding if I knew what it was. Yet no one will tell me.”

  Anwen patted her cheek. “It is difficult, I know. Let me share this with you, though. I waited far too long for your father. I lost him once. He was gone…committed to serve Uther and beyond my reach.”

  Rhiannon drew in a breath which shook. “I didn’t know—you’ve never told me that story.”

  “Because I am ashamed that fear stopped me from reaching for what I really wanted. My only excuse is that I didn’t know Steffen was who I really wanted, until it was too late. I would save you from that.”

  “Mother, are you telling me to go against Father’s wishes?” Rhiannon asked suspiciously.

  “I am telling you to decide what you want. What you truly want. Then reach for it with both hands and let nothing stop you. If you do anything less, you will regret it for the rest of your life.” Anwen smiled, her lined face and faded eyes warm in the firelight. “If you want merely to dally with the man, enjoy yourself and move on with your chin in the air. If it is something more, then take what you want, only be prepared to pay the price which is asked of you.” Her smile faded. “There is always a price, you see.”

  Rhiannon shuddered.

  Chapter Twelve

  On this, their third day, the company walked more than it cantered or galloped. The horses were growing tired, just as the fighters were. There had been no sign of the Saxons, which further dispirited them. They were far south now and would soon reach the territories which Horsa considered his own. If they failed to catch the remnants of Aelle’s army before then, they would have to fight a great host when they were drained from three days of hard riding.

  The advanced scouts waited along the side of the road to report in to Tristan, as the army caught up with them. All reported no rumor or sighting of a Saxon host.

  “The land is silent. Not even the Britons we have come across have seen them,” a scout reported. Rhiannon heard him clearly, for the Queen’s Cohort had moved up the file until it was just behi
nd the head of the company, where the War Duke and his senior officers rode.

  “They’re moving across country,” Tristan growled in his gravelly voice. “They’re afraid we’ll catch up to them.” He sent more scouts out, this time to fan out across the countryside, to ask at every cot and holding for news and report back.

  The day passed. Shadows lengthened. The sun lowered. Rhiannon could feel the tension in her belly. She stopped eating and drinking, for it made her feel sick and too full.

  Queen Lowri, who commanded Isla’s second unit, rode by Isla’s side, as did Elen, Ilsa’s daughter. Elen appeared to act as war duke for both commanders. As the day wound on, she dropped back to speak to each woman riding behind them, her bright red hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  When she reached Rhiannon, she gave her a warm smile. “Be of good cheer. This will soon be over.”

  Rhiannon nodded. “My father warned me last night. Today or tomorrow, we should reach the Saxons.”

  “That is an interesting conversation to have around the family campfire,” Elen said, her smile widening.

  “My father never stops teaching,” Rhiannon admitted.

  “Mine never stopped working, until the day he died,” Elen whispered. Her smile grew again. “Now my brother Alun is the one who never ceases. Hard work is built into our family.”

  “I understand you recently had a son,” Rhiannon said. “Constantine, yes?”

  Elen looked surprised.

  “Your husband, the duke, came to Galleva to escort us here,” Rhiannon explained.

  “Yes, of course,” Elen said. She paused. “Do you mind if I ask you an intimate question, Rhiannon?”

  Rhiannon shook her head. “I prefer direct speech.”

  Elen looked relieved. “Then we can speak freely. What was it like, to grow up with a foster brother…to be a foster sister, yourself?”

  “I was?”

  “Your parents. They are Cornish, are they not? Your mother served in Tintagel.”

  “Yes, I suppose Galleva is an adopted land for all of us, as I was born somewhere near Rome, in an inn with three fountains.”